38. The Wrong Question
The Wrong Question
Rafe kissed me like he meant to ruin my ability to think straight forever, and then, apparently, went full primal rage before my plane even took off. One flight home, one cup of terrible coffee, and by the time I was unpacking, he was trending. Obelus punches bandmate mid-tour.
The texts started immediately. Mama and Tata asking if my face had been clear of the punching perimeter in a panic.
Natalia, gleeful as always, wanting to know if I could grab some blood from the scene to sell to fans in her TikTok shop.
I stared at my phone for a long time before replying, seek help and throwing it face down on the couch.
Then came Dominik. Miss you. Zosia misses you too.
I promised I would be at family dinner Friday.
Normal, predictable, and safe. Except this week has been anything but safe.
Rafe’s voice won't leave my head, the gravel in it, that tone he uses when he wants me to turn into a puddle for him.
That kiss before I left still feels alive in my veins, an echo that refuses to fade no matter how many charts I fill out or how many patients I see.
Work is chaos: charting, calls, surgeries to schedule. But really, I've been pretending to be busier than I am. I answer when I can justify it, when it won't look like I'm waiting for his name to light up my phone. But I can't hide the way my stomach flips every time it does.
When I give in and pick up, the conversations always go too far, too fast. One minute we're talking about music or his mother’s tea, and the next I’m breathless, the room spinning.
It's dangerous, and I'm trying to cut back on it, at least until Saturday.
I'm trying to hold on to a little dignity, some sanity, something that still feels like control.
He makes me feel too much, and every word he says breaks down another wall I've spent years building.
So I've made a plan. Just one more day, one more hurdle. See Dominik, hug Zosia, have dinner with my family. Drink Tata’s tea, let him kiss my head, pretend to be the stable one.
Don't make a spectacle. Just survive family dinner, and everything will be fine.
As I get ready, I tell myself that it's fine, over and over.
But my reflection doesn't look convinced, and the pulse in my throat betrays me.
If I say it enough times, maybe I'll believe it, too.
Maybe no one will notice what's already happening underneath, the stir he left in my blood, the slow unraveling I can't seem to stop.
When I arrive it's the familiar faces, Piotr and Aga with baby Kacper, Tata and Mama at the table, and Natalia on the couch with her phone in hand.
Mama is the first to greet me, her face softening as she takes my coat and insists I look pale, thinner than last time, clearly not eating properly.
Tata kisses my head and presses a glass of tea into my hand before I have the chance to argue.
Aga hugs me tightly, carrying the scent of baby lotion, and Piotr claps me on the shoulder with his usual energy.
“Your blood man’s been busy,” he says, grinning as he takes a seat. “Saw the video. Thought he was just a pretty boy with eyeliner, but apparently he’s got some bite. Summoned his real blood powers, huh?”
“Piotr,” Mama warns from the kitchen.
I roll my eyes. “He’s not my blood man. His name is Rafe.”
“Easy little siostra,” Piotr says. “It actually made me like the guy more. Didn’t think he had it in him.”
Natalia doesn’t even look up from her phone. “That’s toxic masculinity, Piotr. The fact that Obelus can grind against Haima but still fight to your standards just proves he’s more evolved than you.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I feel the sting of them, the sound of Haima’s name twisting through me. The memory of that night, the tension, the things Rafe still refuses to repeat about what was said. Whatever it was, it was about me. The reminder makes my stomach knot.
Piotr notices but only shrugs, oblivious to the silence that follows. “So, how was it then? The concert, the visit, the band?”
“It was… good,” I manage, forcing a small smile. “You’d like them, actually. Natalia, you’d have a chance with Bomos. You could take his soul and his money and he'd thank you for it.” I make a joke of it but Natalia takes it seriously.
“On it,” she says immediately, still typing without looking up.
Piotr groans. “God help us.”
Tata sighs, muttering something about decorum and musicians while passing the salad. I take a sip of my tea, feeling the warmth spread through me, grateful for the noise, for the ordinary chaos that fills the room.
Then the door opens. Dominik’s voice filters in, followed by Zosia’s shriek of excitement. She runs toward me like it’s Christmas morning, her tiny arms wrapping around me. I scoop her up and she plants a loud kiss on my cheek before giggling against my neck.
Dominik follows a few steps behind, his expression cautious but relieved, like a man dying of thirst and finding a glass of water waiting.
We lean in for the traditional cheek kisses, and the scent of his skin pulls me straight back to a night I’ve been trying to forget.
The warmth of him against me, my own voice whispering harder.
The memory flashes hot and vivid before I can stop it.
I fight it down, force my hands to stay still, my breathing even, but he sees it.
I can tell by the way his eyes narrow for a second before he smiles, knowing.
I smile back, pretending at composure. Pretending everything is exactly as it should be.
Dinner is loud in the way only Polish family dinners can be.
Zosia sits between Aga and Piotr, swinging her legs while she narrates her coloring book to anyone who will listen.
Kacper gurgles, happy in his bouncer beside Mama.
Tata complains about taxes, Mama scolds him for bringing up politics at the table, and Natalia records bits of it on her phone, probably to turn into content later.
Dominik slips into the seat beside me. The brush of his leg against mine is unintentional at first, or it seems that way.
Then it happens again. The heat of it, the insistence, makes me flush.
It shouldn’t, not after everything. But my body doesn’t listen.
I keep my posture still, careful not to draw attention, not to pull away too forcefully.
Each accidental touch feels like a betrayal.
Not because Rafe and I have defined anything, but because something inside me already has.
We’ve only really kissed once, and still, the thought of another man’s leg touching mine feels like disloyalty in its rawest form.
Then another memory hits, Dominik’s hands spreading my thighs, the pressure as he entered me, I feel it now like a phantom ache and swallow, going a little breathless at the intrusion to my mind.
Dominik sees the blush creep along my cheeks, his lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes.
He leans back, casual, smug in that still way of his.
It’s like he’s inside my head, like he knows exactly what I’m remembering.
The embarrassment prickles under my skin.
Before I can say anything, Zosia breaks the spell.
She slides off her chair and races around the table, holding up a page from her coloring book, a kaleidoscope of color and chaos.
“Auntie Kasia, look! I made it for you. Do you like it?”
I take it from her, smiling.“ I love it, Zosia. It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks!” she says with a grin of triumph, then looks at Dominik. “I should make one for Mama when she comes to my birthday, Tatu?!”
He smiles softly and kisses her on the head. “Yes, you should, kochanie. She’ll love it.”
The sadness pulls at me for this little girl, who loves with her whole heart, who still believes every parent shows up when they say they will.
I do it before I think. My hand finds Dominik’s and I squeeze it gently, then he squeezes back.
The motion draws attention instantly. Piotr elbows Aga and jerks his chin toward us, a silent look who’s back on.
My face burns, and I pull my hand away too late.
“Ah,” Piotr says with a grin, leaning back. “So we’re all playing nice again, are we?”
“Piotr, leave them be.” Mama warns, though she’s smiling too.
“Just saying,” he adds. “The blood man might have some competition if our Dominik here plays his cards right.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
“Blood man?” Dominik repeats, arching a brow, amused. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”
Natalia replies while organizing her tea into something photo-worthy in angle. “It's what Piotr calls Obelus since he hit Haima. All the blood that gushed out of his nose. The altar. Makes sense. Good job Piotr, you did something right.” She gives a small nod of approval.
He turns to me, eyes narrowing just slightly, though his smile stays easy. “I heard about that. Were you there to see it?”
Every conversation in the room fades into background static. I shake my head, keeping my tone neutral. “I was on my flight back. Seemed eventful, glad I missed it.”
“Eventful,” Piotr repeats, grinning." That’s one word for it. Wonder if it was as impressive in person as it looked online. The guy nearly K.O'ed him in the middle of a hotel lobby. So much blood, he broke his nose for sure. He’s got fucking balls!”
Mama tuts at Piotr for his language. He gives her a sheepish look.
Dominik studies me over his glass of water, calm, almost detached. “Did he say what made him snap, your friend?”
My throat tightens. The way he says the word friend is meant as a jab. I picture Rafe’s face in that moment, the flash of fury that wasn’t about pride or control, it was about me. Haima had pushed him all weekend and finally he broke.
“Something personal,” I say finally, setting my fork down. “Someone he didn’t want Haima to talk about.”
Tata makes a thoughtful sound. “Ah. A man defending someone, then.”
“Exactly,” Piotr says, nodding as if the conversation needs his approval. “I’m telling you, I like the guy more now. A man’s gotta defend what matters to him, or he’s worthless.”
Dominik glances at me when Piotr says it, his expression unreadable.
The look sits somewhere between curiosity and something darker.
The table carries on around us, laughter and chatter filling every pause, but under it, my pulse won’t steady.
I push my food around my plate, pretending to listen to Natalia brag about her follower count.
Dominik reaches for the bread basket, his sleeve brushing my arm, a test, but I don’t lean into it.
When dinner finally ends, the noise lingers. Plates scrape, Zosia sings a tune while stacking spoons, and Tata insists on pouring everyone another round of tea despite half the table trying to leave. Mama calls for help with dishes, and I’m the first to stand, grateful for the excuse.
I roll up my sleeves and start rinsing plates, letting the water run too long just to have something to focus on. I hear him before he speaks, his voice that easy calm he always wears like armor.
“Need a hand?”
I don’t have to turn to know it’s him. “I’ve got it,” I say, but he’s already next to me, reaching for a towel. We work in silence for a while. The weight of everything unspoken stretches thin between us. The air feels warm, close and humid.
“You didn’t tell us much about your trip,” he says eventually, his tone too casual to be harmless.
“Nothing to tell.”
He dries another plate, then he leans against the counter beside me, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on mine.
“Come on, Kasia. I can see it all over you. Just say it, put me out of my misery.”
The heat rises to my cheeks before I can stop it. I turn off the tap, the sudden silence ringing between us. “You know,” I start, voice steady but low, “how I said that I could control myself? Well, I did. Unlike you, I didn’t sleep with him. Even though, trust me, the opportunity was there.”
His expression falters for half a heartbeat before he masks it with a bitter smile.
“If you hadn’t made your ridiculous comments about not accepting me going, if you’d just trusted me, maybe we wouldn’t have—”
He steps forward. “Wouldn’t have what?”
The words hang between us. I meet his eyes and exhale. “If you have to know, we kissed. It's still less than what you did with Lena, and you don't feel guilty about that, so why should I?”
Dominik’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “The punch? Was it about you?”
I say nothing. My throat locks.
“Tak. Kurwa,” he mutters, the faintest edge of a laugh in his voice. “I knew it.”
Before I can answer, he calls out, “Zosia, get your things, kochanie. Time to go.”
Her little voice answers from the dining room, cheerful and unaware, as she scrambles to collect her toys. Dominik doesn’t look back at me as he leaves the kitchen, just folds the towel and sets it neatly on the counter before disappearing down the hall.
A moment later, Piotr steps in, eyebrows raised. “What was that about?”
I keep my eyes on the sink, my voice flat. “He asked the wrong question. Didn't like the answer.”