Chapter 6
Nikolai
I leaned back into the far corner of the couch, watching her.
She was curled up like a stray cat that had finally stopped running—limbs tucked in; the blanket half-slipped down her shoulder, cheek pressed to the cushion. Completely unguarded. Soft in a way I wasn’t used to seeing. Not in her. Not in anyone.
The house was still. Too still. I wasn’t used to silence without tension.
And yet… this wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else. Something unfamiliar.
The lamp beside us cast a dull amber glow across her face, catching in her lashes, highlighting the faintest shadow beneath her cheekbone. She didn’t look like a woman wrapped up in rivalry and anger. She looked like peace.
My jaw tightened instinctively.
I shouldn’t be watching her like this. Not this way. But I couldn’t stop.
She let out a tiny sigh in her sleep—barely audible, but enough to make my chest pull tight. There was no armor here. No sarcasm. No fire in her eyes.
Just Mina.
And for reasons I didn’t care to untangle, I wanted to keep her like this. Not forever. Just for now. Just a little longer.
The scent of her still lingered in the air—warm cookie pie and something sharper beneath it. Something like her laugh. I could still hear it, the way she’d teased me hours ago.
“What are you, a serial killer?”
My lips curved before I could stop them. I hadn’t smiled like that in weeks.
But this wasn’t amusement anymore. This was weight in my chest. Something unfamiliar. Something dangerous.
I shifted forward and stood, crossing the room in slow, quiet steps.
When I reached her, I paused. Just looking.
I bent down, slid one arm beneath her knees, the other beneath her back.
She was warm—so much warmer than I expected—and soft in a way that didn’t fit the sharpness of her usual demeanor.
She stirred, barely, her head brushing my chest as she mumbled something incoherent.
I felt the sound more than I heard it, a quiet vibration against my ribs.
Then she sighed. A soft, unconscious sound. And curled closer.
My grip tightened.
I carried her down the hall, the only sound the soft scuff of my footsteps against the hardwood. Each breath felt louder than it should have, like my body didn’t know what to do with the weight of her so close, so trusting.
In my room, I laid her down with more care than I’d shown anything in years. She didn’t wake. Just sighed again and settled deeper into the blankets. One hand reached out absently, curling into the sheets like she belonged there.
I stood over her for a moment. Just watching.
There was no armor left in her. No fire. No bite. Just Mina—unarmed and at peace.
I turned away before I let that feeling unravel me.
Stripped off my shirt and joggers, pulled on clean clothes—dark joggers, a soft long-sleeve shirt. Neutral. Controlled. Presentable. Not vulnerable.
When I slid under the covers beside her, I left space between us. Out of respect. Out of discipline.
The mattress shifted under my weight, and for a second, I thought she might wake.
Instead, she moved.
Rolled—slow and easy—toward me until her shoulder barely brushed mine.
I went still.
I could’ve pulled away. I didn’t.
Her breath was steady now, brushing faintly against my arm, rhythmic and real. I matched it without meaning to. Like my body wanted to sync with hers.
I stared at the ceiling.
Tried not to think about how natural this felt. Tried not to let my mind wander to dangerous places—like what it might be like to have her wake up here every morning, not just this one. What it might feel like to keep her close, not because of a bet, but because she chose to stay.
But that wasn’t this.
This was just a moment.
And I let it be enough.
For now.
I expected to be awake for hours. That was how nights usually went—staring at the ceiling, dragging breath after breath through a chest too tight to relax, waiting for the ghosts to come knocking behind my eyelids.
Especially now, with her here, asleep just inches away.
It should’ve made the tension worse. I should’ve been restless, overthinking, questioning every inhale. Instead, I just… listened. To her breathing. To the steady hum of the world beyond the window. To the quiet rhythm of a moment I didn’t want to break.
And then it happened.
Somewhere between the sound of her exhale and the weight of the blankets, my thoughts slowed.
My body stopped bracing.
There was no edge to teeter on, no darkness crawling up from the corners of my mind.
Just warmth.
Her warmth.
A stillness I hadn’t earned—but didn’t want to fight.
My eyes closed.
And I let go.
Without a struggle.
Without a fight.
For the first time in a long, long time, sleep came easy.
I woke before the sun, that gray-blue haze of near-dawn bleeding through the curtains.
For a moment, I didn’t move—just floated in that strange, weightless place between sleep and waking.
The shadows were still soft, the air still cool.
The silence was thick, like snow blanketing everything.
And for the first time in what felt like years, there was no heaviness in my chest. No tight coil of dread beneath my ribs.
No cold sweat. No fists clenching around memories I didn’t ask for.
Something was missing.
And somehow, that peace—that absence of fear—unnerved me more than the nightmares ever did.
I turned my head slowly, almost reluctant to break whatever spell held the stillness in place.
And there she was. Mina. Curled beneath the blankets, hair spilling across my pillow like ink bleeding into untouched canvas.
Her lips were parted, breath steady, face soft in a way I rarely got to see.
The fire was gone, just for now. In its place, something quiet.
Human. Real. I didn’t move closer, not right away.
Just watched her breathe, the slow rise and fall pulling me deeper into something I hadn’t dared feel in years.
Safety.
It wasn’t a word I let myself believe in. But right now, in the dim hush of morning, with her beside me and my demons quiet for once, I let myself believe it just a little.
I pushed myself up slowly, careful not to disturb the mattress too much.
She didn’t stir. I moved across the room, the air cool against my skin as I made my way to the bathroom.
The click of the door, the rush of water—it all felt routine, familiar.
But this morning carried a strange weightlessness, like the tension I usually wore had been left on the floor with my clothes.
Steam filled the small space, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of everything.
I stepped under the spray and let the water do what it always did—wash away the residue of sleep, of noise, of last night’s violence.
The bruises on my ribs tugged and ached, reminders of the fight, but I barely registered them.
I was too focused on the quiet hum that had settled under my skin.
I let the water drum over my head, my mind drifting, not toward the rink or the press or Mikel—but back to the girl still asleep in my bed.
By the time I was dressed—jeans, black hoodie, simple and solid—I stood in front of the mirror for a beat too long. My reflection looked… lighter. Not weak. Just less burdened. My body still felt used, still healing. But my mind? Clearer than it had been in weeks.
I stepped back into the bedroom, and there she was.
Sprawled diagonally across the bed now, one arm draped dramatically over my pillow, mouth open just enough to catch a little pool of drool on the edge of her chin. It was absurd. And completely disarming.
I smirked.
This wasn’t the sharp-tongued, wild-eyed storm who’d walked into my life with fire in her voice. This was Mina unfiltered—real in a way that made something in me tighten. Not because it was funny. But because it felt… safe.
I watched her for a moment longer than I should have. Every slow breath, every twitch of her fingers, anchored something in me I hadn’t even realized was floating.
She shifted slightly, burrowed deeper into the pillow like it offered sanctuary, and I moved—slow, quiet, across the carpet.
I reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair off her forehead, and let myself smile.
“Wake up,” I murmured, low and amused.
And for once, I didn’t want the moment to end. But I wanted to see what she’d say when it did.
I leaned down, close enough that my breath stirred the loose strands of her hair. “Mina. Wake up.”
She groaned in protest and buried her face deeper into my pillow like she intended to fuse with it. “No. Too early. I reject the concept of morning.”
A grin tugged at the edge of my mouth before I could stop it. “You need clothes,” I said quietly, voice still gravelled with sleep. “And a toothbrush.”
That did it.
Her expression shifted—just enough. The sleepy haze cracked, and behind it, reality settled like a stone in water. I watched it land. That flicker in her eyes as she remembered where she was. Why.
She nodded, slow, pushing herself up on one elbow. The blanket slipped down, revealing her bare shoulder, warm skin kissed by the pale morning light—and I had to look away for a beat longer than necessary just to keep my thoughts in order.
“Yeah,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes like she could erase the night that brought her here. “Okay.”
I gestured toward the bathroom with a nod. “Over there.”
I stepped back. Gave her space. But her gaze caught mine before I could turn fully away and held it. Sleepy. Clear. Vulnerable in a way that made something in me go still.
“Thanks for… you know,” she started, voice softer than I’d ever heard it. She didn’t finish the sentence.
“For bringing you here?” I asked.
She nodded, brushing hair out of her face. “I didn’t think—”
“No one expected this,” I cut in, more gently than I meant to. I leaned back against the wall, hands tucked into my pockets like that would steady the tension curling behind my ribs.
She looked at the sheets. Then at me again.
And something passed between us in the silence. No words. Just the weight of whatever this was becoming.
I straightened. “I’ll find you some clothes.”
Her mouth curved like she wanted to be difficult but didn’t quite have the energy. She pushed back the covers and stood—shoulders bare, shirt hanging too loose—and crossed her arms in mock offense.
“Seriously?” she said, but there was laughter tugging at the edges of her words.
I chuckled, quiet and real, and turned toward the closet.
Whatever this was—whatever it was becoming—it shouldn’t feel this easy.
But somehow, it did.
She pulled her hair into a messy bun, the motion instinctive and unthinking, like muscle memory. Then she slipped on her shoes. No complaints. No sass. Just movement—quiet and efficient.
We didn’t speak.
But it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was the kind of silence that meant something now. Heavy, but not hard. Like both of us knew that words might break whatever was holding the moment together, so we didn’t bother trying. She didn’t look at me when she stood. I didn’t press her with questions when I opened the door.
She walked out first.
I followed.
We’d been on the road for less than thirty seconds when she reached for the console.
“No,” I said, without even looking.
“Too late,” she replied, already flipping through my presets like she was defusing a bomb. “Oh my goodness, these are all instrumental. Do you meditate in here?”
“I drive in here.”
“You brood in here,” she corrected, making a face. “This is depressing. How do you not fall asleep at the wheel?”
Then she found it—pure pop bliss. The beat kicked in, loud and obnoxiously upbeat, like sunshine threw up in the form of a melody.
“No,” I repeated, this time with feeling. “This song is terrible.”
“This song is perfect,” she said, grinning as she turned it up. “This is exactly what this car needs—energy. Joy. Glitter.”
“There’s no glitter in this car,” I muttered.
“There is now.”
She started singing. Not softly. Not politely. Full volume, arms half-dancing in her seat, one hand out the window like she was starring in her own music video.
I shot her a sideways glance. “Do you have to sing every word?”
“Yes,” she said without missing a beat—or a lyric. “This is what healing sounds like, Volkov.”
“Healing sounds like silence.”
She laughed—actually laughed—and the sound bounced off the inside of the car and hit something in me I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Admit it,” she said, pointing at me with both hands as the chorus hit. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it,” I said.
“You love it.”
I didn’t respond. But I didn’t change the song either.
Which, apparently, was enough for her.
And yet, nothing about it felt empty.
It felt like something had shifted, quietly but irrevocably.
And I wasn't sure how I felt about that.