Chapter 29 #2
“Nothing,” I lie, the word coming out too fast and too casual.
It’s mostly paranoia anyway — stupid, half-formed thoughts that I definitely don’t want to give my sister any reason to dig into.
She’s already protective enough without me planting seeds about Viktor possibly being involved in his own father’s death.
“Just… bored. And sore. And missing the team. Normal injured guy stuff.”
She hums, clearly not buying it but willing to let it slide for now. “Mhm. Sure. Well, if you change your mind about me coming over, you know where I am. And stop doom-scrolling the news, idiot. It’s not good for you.”
We talk for a few more minutes — her teasing me about being a dramatic baby, me giving her half-hearted warnings about not breaking Mats’ heart (or dick) — before she has to go back to work.
I realize I’m spiraling when my thumb keeps hovering over Viktor’s contact like it’s magnetic.
I’ve already typed and deleted three different messages.
The paranoia is getting loud — the smile, the timing, Damian’s curse, the Russians who jumped me, all of it swirling in my head like bad highlight reel footage on loop.
I need to do something. Anything. Before I call him at some ungodly hour in Russia and start interrogating him like a paranoid wife in a bad soap opera.
Cooking. That’s normal. Productive. Viktor’s kitchen is stupidly nice and I’ve barely used it since I’ve been here. Mac and cheese. Classic, idiot-proof comfort food. I can handle that. Probably.
I push myself up from the couch too fast. The room tilts for a second. I grab the back of the couch with my good hand, breathing hard through my teeth, and nearly face-plant into the coffee table when my knee buckles.
“Fuck— stupid fucking ribs— stupid fucking body—” I hiss, straightening up slowly this time, one arm wrapped protectively around my taped side.
Every breath feels like I’m inhaling broken glass.
I shuffle toward the kitchen like an eighty-year-old man who lost a fight with a Zamboni, muttering the entire way.
The kitchen is pristine. Viktor keeps it spotless, all sleek dark counters and fancy appliances that look like they cost more than my first car.
I stare at the cabinets like they personally offended me, then yank one open with my good hand.
Pots clang. A measuring cup rolls out and bounces across the floor. I curse again.
One-handed cooking is apparently a special kind of hell.
I manage to get a pot onto the stove after dropping it twice. My left wrist is useless in its brace, so every movement is clumsy and slow. I knock a spoon off the counter, then the box of macaroni when I try to grab it. Dry pasta scatters across the floor like tiny beige landmines.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl, carefully lowering myself to pick them up one by one. My ribs scream in protest the whole time. By the time I get back up, I’m sweating and already regretting every life choice that led me here.
I pull up YouTube on my phone and prop it against the knife block.
“How to make mac and cheese from scratch” — because apparently I’m too dramatic for the boxed kind right now.
The first video starts playing. The cheerful woman on screen makes it look stupidly easy. I follow along, cursing every step.
“Boil water. Okay, easy.” I turn the burner on too high because I’m impatient and the water takes forever. “Salt it. Sure. Whatever.” I dump in way too much salt and immediately regret it.
The macaroni goes in. I stir with the wrong hand twice and almost send the whole pot flying. I’m swearing at the pasta like it insulted my mother.
“Stir constantly so it doesn’t stick— yeah, no shit, lady,” I mutter at the video. I stir too hard and water sloshes over the side, hissing on the hot stove. The smell of burnt starch starts to rise.
I move on to the cheese sauce. Another video.
This one is even more annoying because the guy keeps smiling like he’s never had a bad day in his life.
I grate cheese one-handed — which takes approximately seventeen years — and keep dropping shreds onto the counter and floor.
My good hand is starting to cramp. The sauce is lumpy.
I add too much milk trying to fix it and it goes watery instead.
“Fuck this fucking sauce. Why is this so hard? It’s cheese and milk and pasta, for fuck’s sake—”
The smoke detector chooses that exact moment to lose its mind.
The piercing, high-pitched shriek rips through the house like a fire alarm in hell.
I jump so hard I nearly drop the entire pot.
Pain lances through my ribs and I let out another loud yelp, grabbing the counter with my good hand as the world spins for a second.
“No no no no— fuck— stop— I didn’t even burn anything that bad!
” I shout at the ceiling, waving a dish towel frantically with my one working hand like that’s going to help.
The smoke detector keeps screaming, loud and relentless, echoing off every surface.
My heart is hammering. I’m half-convinced Viktor’s fancy smart house is about to call the fire department on me.
I’m still waving the towel like an idiot when the front door opens. I freeze mid-fan, towel still raised like a white flag, and turn toward the sound.
Viktor is standing in the doorway. He’s in his travel clothes, dark coat dusted with snow, duffel bag dropped by his feet.
His eyes take in the entire disaster in one slow, heavy sweep: me standing there like a guilty child, the blaring smoke alarm, the chaotic state of his once-pristine kitchen, and the black smoke curling up from the ruined pot behind me.
I open my mouth to explain — or apologize, or make a joke, anything — but nothing comes out.