17. Alina
ALINA
Mikhail comes for us after dark, a few hours after the war council has been adjourned.
He doesn’t announce himself, but Enzo opens the door and steps aside, and I already know who it is before I look up from helping Oisin with his shoes.
“We’re going out,” Mikhail says, his voice even, like he’s just laying down a fact.
Oisin straightens and looks at him first, then at me. “Out where?”
“Dinner,” Mikhail replies. “Not long.”
I rise slowly, watching his face for tension or second thoughts, but he’s settled, already committed to the choice. “Out as in out?”
“Yes.”
There’s no time for me to register surprise. Mikhail hasn’t ever done something like this. In fact, I don’t recall sitting down to dinner with him as a couple. I glance at Oisin, who’s already tugging at his sweater.
“Can I wear the blue one?”
“You can,” I say, and he darts toward the wardrobe without waiting for more.
Mikhail stays where he is while I pull on my jacket, and when Oisin comes back half dressed and impatient, Mikhail kneels to help him with the buttons without being asked.
It’s efficient, quiet, and practiced enough that it doesn’t feel like a performance, and that unsettles me more than anything else.
The drive out is smooth, two vehicles ahead and one behind, spaced just enough not to look like an escort.
I sit in the back with Oisin tucked against my side, my arm around him out of habit, and I clock every turn and slowdown while pretending I’m not.
Mikhail keeps his eyes forward, but I can tell when he notices something by the way his shoulders shift.
The restaurant is small, warm, and crowded enough to matter, with close tables and no private rooms. Mikhail opens the door and lets Oisin walk in first, then follows without touching either of us, and that detail lands harder than any show of protection would have.
We sit near the back, and Oisin climbs into the chair and stills himself the moment he realizes Mikhail is watching. A menu lands in front of him, and Mikhail slides it closer.
“Pick,” he says.
Oisin squints at the pictures, then at the words. “This one.”
“Read it,” Mikhail says calmly.
Oisin sounds it out, then looks up. “Chicken.”
“And?” Mikhail prompts.
“And potatoes.”
“And?” he says again.
Oisin glances at me, then back at Mikhail. “Tomatoes,” he says, then adds thoughtfully, “cut small.”
Mikhail’s mouth shifts just enough that I catch it. Not a smile, but interest. He looks at Oisin, not the menu. “You like them like that.”
Oisin nods. “They’re better.”
That’s news to me. I’ve spent years picking tomatoes off his plate.
The waiter leans in. “Pepper okay?”
Oisin hesitates, then looks at Mikhail like this matters. “Not too much.”
“Mild,” Mikhail says easily. “And keep the sauce on the side.”
Oisin’s shoulders relax like a decision’s been handled properly. “Dessert?” he adds, hopeful but careful.
“After dinner,” I say without heat.
He looks between us. “Chocolate.”
Mikhail doesn’t look at me this time. He keeps his eyes on Oisin. “After,” he says, calm and final, but not unkind.
Oisin considers that, then nods once, satisfied with the terms.
I let out a quiet breath and lift my glass, watching the two of them across the table and realizing how quickly something steady is forming where I expected resistance.
The food comes quickly, plates set down with ease, and the smell alone makes my stomach tighten.
The chicken is roasted deep gold, skin crisp and crackling, the potatoes smashed and browned at the edges with salt still clinging to them, and the tomatoes are warm and sweet, cut small just the way Oisin asked, glistening under a light drizzle of oil.
Steam rises as Oisin digs in, his shoulders squared with concentration, his fork moving carefully from plate to mouth like this is serious work he intends to do well.
He eats with focused seriousness, careful not to spill and quietly pleased each time he manages it, and I catch myself smiling before I stop.
Mikhail barely touches his plate, but he notices everything.
He shifts a napkin closer when Oisin’s elbow drifts, slides the knife farther from the edge of the table without breaking conversation, and catches a drop of sauce with his thumb just before it stains Oisin’s sleeve, wiping it away with the napkin like it’s instinct, not effort.
The table bends around him without anyone acknowledging it.
The waiter checks with him before asking anyone else, the noise seems to lower in a subtle radius around our seats, and even I feel it, that steady gravity that doesn’t need volume to hold a room.
When his gaze lifts, it lands on me briefly, warm and assessing, and something flutters down in my stomach before I can stop it.
He doesn’t stare, doesn’t smile, just looks, and that somehow feels more intimate.
“You’re not eating again,” Oisin says suddenly, pausing mid-bite to look at him.
“I’ll eat later?” Mikhail replies, calm and unbothered.
“Why?”
Mikhail considers him for a moment, then answers honestly. “Because I like to make sure everyone else eats first.”
Oisin thinks about that, chewing slowly. “Mama does that too.”
My fingers tighten around my fork, and I feel my pulse jump in a way I don’t appreciate.
Mikhail’s eyes flick back to me, just for a second, and his mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. The waiter returns with fresh bread, still warm, the crust splitting as it’s set down, and Mikhail breaks a piece without looking and slides it toward Oisin. “Careful. It’s hot.”
Oisin blows on it obediently, then grins when it cools enough to eat.
I watch the exchange, the ease of it, the way Mikhail gives direction without sharpness and attention without crowding, and I feel that quiet ache settle in my chest again.
This is what he’s like when he’s not performing, when there’s no one to intimidate or negotiate with, and it’s dangerously compelling.
I force myself to take a bite, letting the flavors ground me, but my awareness keeps drifting back to him, to the way he commands the table without raising his voice, to the way Oisin responds without fear, and to the uncomfortable truth settling deeper with every passing minute.
I didn’t imagine this version of him. I just never gave myself room to see it.
When dessert arrives, Oisin digs in with gusto and Mikhail watches him with an intensity he doesn’t bother hiding anymore. I don’t interrupt it, even when it feels intimate enough to intrude on.
We leave before the room thins out. Mikhail walks on Oisin’s other side, close but not touching, and when Oisin stumbles on the curb, Mikhail steadies him with a hand to the shoulder that lasts exactly as long as it needs to.
We get home just after nine. Security moves with us without hovering, and Oisin’s hand stays in mine as we walk the familiar corridor toward the east wing.
“Teeth,” I tell him gently when we reach my room.
He groans like it’s a great injustice, then trudges toward the bathroom anyway.
I follow, squeeze toothpaste onto the brush, and steady the stool with my foot while he climbs up.
He brushes seriously, brows furrowed, foam gathering at the corner of his mouth. I tuck his pajamas on the counter and smooth his hair back while he spits.
“You did good today,” I tell him.
He shrugs, pretending not to care, but his shoulders lift just a little. “Mama, he looks scary.”
I pause. “Who?”
“Your husband,” he says plainly.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “He looks serious. That’s different.”
Oisin considers that, then nods, satisfied, and goes back to brushing.
A knock sounds at the door, firm and unintrusive. “Come in,” I call.
Mikhail steps inside with a woman at his side. She’s in her early thirties, dark hair pulled back, posture relaxed but alert. She takes in the room in one glance, clocking exits the same way I do. “This is Sofia,” Mikhail says. “She’s Enzo’s sister.”
Sofia smiles at Oisin immediately. “Hey.”
Oisin spits again, wipes his mouth, and looks at her with interest. “Do you tell stories?”
Sofia’s smile grows bigger. “All the time.”
“What kind?”
“The good kind,” she answers. “With trains and dogs. Oh, and snacks!”
Oisin’s eyes light up. He hops off the stool and points toward the hallway. “Come. I have books.”
He grabs her hand without hesitation and starts towing her out like he’s already decided she belongs to him. Mikhail watches it happen, something unreadable crossing his face, then he looks at me. “I’ll be right outside.”
I nod.
Oisin pauses at the door, peeks back at me. “Good night, Mama.”
“Good night, love,” I say.
Then they’re gone, Sofia laughing softly as Oisin chatters at full speed about trains that go fast and trains that stop too much. The door closes, and the room feels suddenly larger. Mikhail doesn’t speak right away. He just stands there, jacket still on, eyes on me like he’s recalibrating.
“You handled that well,” he says finally.
“So did you,” I reply.
He nods once. “Come with me.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. I follow him down the hall and through the glass doors to the enclosed balcony. The city glows beyond the glass, its noise softened by thick panels and steel framing. He opens the small fridge, pulls out two beers, and hands me one. “You’re serious,” I say, surprised.
“I said sometimes,” he replies gruffly, already opening his.
We lean against the railing, not touching, close enough to feel each other’s heat. “You didn’t ask me,” I say after a moment. “About Sofia.”
“I watched him,” Mikhail answers. “He chose.”
“He trusts quickly,” I say.
“No,” Mikhail says. “He trusts accurately.”
I glance at him, and he’s already watching me, eyes dark and intent. Silver threads catch the light at his temples, and it makes him look unfairly good, dangerous in that way that pulls attention whether he wants it or not. “You’re staring,” he says mildly.
“I’m assessing,” I counter.
“Lie better,” he replies.
I laugh despite myself, and something in his expression eases.
“You’re tired,” he says, quieter now.
“So are you.”
He lifts his beer, takes a slow drink. “I’m used to it.”
“I’m not,” I admit. “Not this kind of tired.”
He shifts closer, close enough that my shoulder brushes his chest. He smells clean, sharp, familiar in a way that makes my stomach flip. “You kept him alive,” Mikhail says. “You kept yourself alive. I won’t pretend I don’t understand why you ran.”
“That’s new,” I say.
“I learn,” he replies. “Slowly.”
Silence stretches, charged but not awkward. “Alina,” he says, using my name like it matters. “I won’t take control from you. Not with him, and not with you.”
I look up at him. “You don’t promise lightly.”
“No,” he agrees. “That’s why I only say it when I mean it.”
The balcony feels smaller. Warmer. He reaches out, slow this time, giving me every chance to step back. I don’t. His hand settles at my waist, firm and familiar, and he pulls me in like he’s done waiting.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
I don’t.
He kisses me then, decisively and deeply, and the world narrows to that single moment, the city glowing outside, my son safe inside, and the undeniable truth settling between us. This time, there’s no running.