Chapter 29 #3
Viktor closes the door behind him with a quiet click.
Without a word he grabs one of the kitchen chairs, drags it over, climbs up on it with that effortless grace that shouldn’t be possible for a man his size, and reaches up to unscrew the smoke alarm.
He pops the batteries out with two fingers and the piercing wail finally cuts off, leaving ringing silence in its wake.
He steps down, puts the chair back, turns off the stove with a flick of his wrist, and moves the ruined pot to the sink like it personally insulted him. Then he turns to me.
Big hands cup my face and he kisses me. Hard at first, like he’s been holding back for days, then softer, deeper, like he’s pouring every mile of distance between us into it.
I completely deflate. All the panic, the pain, the spiraling paranoia, the boredom — it all melts right out of me as I lean into him, good hand fisting in his shirt, a soft, relieved sound escaping against his mouth.
He tastes like airplane coffee and home.
Viktor breaks the kiss first, just enough to rest his forehead against mine, thumbs brushing slow and gentle over my cheeks like he’s memorizing every inch of my face after days apart. His eyes are soft in that rare way he only ever gets with me, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I take it you don’t like my kitchen?” he teases.
I pout immediately, dramatic and full, the relief from seeing him warring with the embarrassment of the absolute disaster I’ve made.
“It’s not that I don’t like it! It’s that nothing in this stupid house is made for one-handed people!
I only have one working hand, Vik! One! The pot was too heavy, the grater kept slipping, the stupid pasta box fought me, and the sauce—don’t even get me started on the sauce, it betrayed me, okay?
I was trying to make mac and cheese because I was spiraling and bored and missing you and the team and the ice and everything, and then the smoke detector decided I was trying to burn the place down like some kind of amateur arsonist—”
Viktor listens with that small, fond smirk on his face the whole time, saying nothing, just letting me ramble.
His hands stay on my face for a moment longer before he gently guides me backward toward one of the kitchen chairs, careful of my ribs, easing me down like I’m made of glass.
I keep talking even as I sit, gesturing wildly with my good hand while he crouches in front of me, listening like every dramatic complaint is the most important thing in the world.
“—and I watched like five YouTube videos but they all had two hands and no broken ribs and I swear the smoke detector has it out for me personally—”
He huffs a quiet laugh, thumbs still stroking my cheeks, and presses another soft kiss to my forehead.
“Alright, soroka,” Viktor says, that small smirk still playing on his lips as he straightens up. “I’ll make you mac and cheese. No need to vandalize my house.”
I huff, crossing my arms as best I can with one wrist braced, trying to look offended even though the relief of having him here is making my whole body feel lighter. “I wasn’t vandalizing. I was attempting. There’s a difference.”
He chuckles low, the sound warm and familiar, and presses one more quick kiss to my forehead before turning toward the mess I created.
I stay seated like he silently ordered, watching him move around the kitchen with that effortless efficiency that always makes my chest do stupid things.
He cleans as he cooks — wiping counters, tossing the ruined pot into the sink, sweeping up scattered pasta with one hand while the other fills a fresh pot with water.
It’s ridiculous how graceful he is even doing something as mundane as this.
The way his shoulders move under his shirt, the quiet focus in his eyes, the little Russian mutter under his breath when he finds another cheese shred on the floor.
I smile, soft and dopey, chin resting on my good hand as I watch him.
Yeah… there’s no way this man would actually murder someone.
The thought feels silly now, sitting here in his kitchen while he’s making me comfort food after flying halfway across the world.
Viktor is intense, sure. Protective to a fault.
But he’s mine. The guy who puts my tongue ring back in after every game and holds me like I’m the only thing that matters.
The smile I saw on New Year’s was probably just…
relief or something. Stress. Not whatever paranoid shit my pain-med brain cooked up.
He glances over his shoulder at me, catching me staring, and his smirk deepens just a fraction. “You going to keep watching me like that or are you going to tell me how you managed to set off the smoke detector with mac and cheese?”
I grin, the last of the spiral fading under the warmth of his presence. “It was the sauce’s fault. Traitorous dairy product.”
Viktor huffs a quiet laugh and keeps working, the kitchen slowly filling with the much better smell of actual cooking instead of burnt regret.