Lily
Day three, and he's still here.
I tell myself it's because he can barely walk without wincing. Tell myself I'm just being practical, that sending an injured man out into the street would make me no better than the people who shot him.
But the truth sits heavier than that.
I don't want him to leave.
The realization hits me while I'm kneading dough at four in the morning, my hands moving through the familiar rhythm while my brain spins in circles.
Zakhar is upstairs, asleep on my couch. Has been for three days now.
And instead of feeling invaded or anxious or any of the normal things a person should feel about a dangerous stranger in their home, I feel settled.
Which is insane.
I punch the dough harder than necessary.
The bakery opens at six. By five-thirty, I have fresh rolls cooling on racks, cinnamon buns glazed and perfect, sourdough loaves that smell like heaven. The same routine I've followed for two years, the same products that aren't quite enough to keep this place afloat.
But today, when I unlock the front door and flip the sign to open, something feels different. I can't put my finger on it. Just a prickle at the back of my neck. Like I'm being watched.
I glance around the street, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary.
The morning crawls by. Three customers. An elderly woman who buys a single roll. A businessman who grabs coffee and a muffin without looking at me. A mother with two kids who lingers over the pastry case, before leaving with one cinnamon roll she then breaks in half and gives to her children.
I don't blame them. Times are tight for everyone.
By noon, I'm exhausted. The ADHD makes days like this torture, my brain bouncing between worry about money, worry about Zakhar, worry about what the hell I'm doing with my life. I can't focus on anything long enough to actually solve any of it.
I close the bakery for lunch and head upstairs.
Zakhar is awake. Sitting up on the couch, shirtless despite me washing the one he arrived here in.
Yes, it’s bloodstained and has bullet holes in it, but it’s not like I have a stack of men’s clothes readily available.
I washed his jeans, pants and socks yesterday, threw him a towel for his modesty but still saw more than an eyeful as I helped him undress.
I’m a nurse, I kept telling myself. I’ve seen thousands of naked men. But that didn’t change the fact that Zakhar was the man in front of me, and there’s nothing normal about this situation.
He's on his phone, typing one-handed, and doesn't look up when I enter.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, setting down the sandwich I brought him.
"Better, thanks."
He sets the phone aside and reaches for the food. I watch him eat, cataloging the small changes. Less pale. Moving more easily. The wounds are healing faster than I would usually expect, but I'm not complaining.
"You should be resting more," I say.
"I've been resting for three days."
"You were shot. That’s serious."
"And you fixed me." His eyes meet mine with that strange intensity that makes my stomach flip. "You're good at what you do."
"What I used to do. Past tense."
"That’s what you said the other night. Why?"
I shouldn't tell him. He's a stranger. A temporary guest who'll be gone as soon as he's healed. But the words come anyway, pulled out by exhaustion and sadness.
"Burnout," I say quietly. "Understaffed wards. Patients dying because we didn't have enough hands, enough time, enough resources. I watched people suffer because the system was broken, and there was nothing I could do about it."
"So, you left."
"I couldn’t do it anymore. Besides, my grandma got sick, and it was easy to help out here while I cared for her. Then it was too hard to go back to broken systems that made me feel like a failure."
"I believe you."
The certainty in his voice surprises me. He says it like a fact, not comfort. Like he's assessed the situation and reached a conclusion.
"The bakery was my aunt's," I continue, not sure why I'm still talking. "She left it to me when she died. I thought... I don't know. I thought I could make something work here. Something that mattered."
His eyes narrow with a frown. "It does matter."
"The numbers say otherwise,” I say with a sigh.
He's quiet for a moment, studying me. "You're drowning."
It's not a question. Just another fact.
I nod, unable to voice the confirmation because my throat tightened up unexpectedly.
"Let me help."
I laugh, the sound strangled. "You can lift your arm. How are you going to help?"
"I know people. I can make the bakery profitable."
Something cold slides down my spine. "What kind of people?"
His expression doesn't change. "The kind who enjoy baked goods. Who can put in large orders in advance for parties and things. The kind who can keep you safe."
"Safe from what?" she asks, her eyes alert with curiosity and suspicion.
"From whatever might come."
I stare at him. The tattoos covering his skin. The scars hidden beneath them. The way he moves like violence is a language he speaks fluently.
"What are you?" I ask quietly.
He could lie. I see him consider it, see the calculation in those winter-grey eyes. But he doesn't.
"Bratva."
The word hangs in the air between us. Fear tries and fails to break through my psyche. I’ve heard the stories about people like him. But I just feel tired.
"Of course you are."
"Does that change things?" He places his plate on the table between us, never taking his eyes from mine.
"I don't know." I sink back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "Should it?"
"Most people would say yes."
I tip my head back and close my eyes. "I'm not most people," I mutter.
His voice is even, flat. "No. You're not."
We sit in silence. Outside, traffic hums past. The bakery sits empty below us, waiting for customers who won't come.
"Why did you come here?" I ask finally. "That night. Why my door?"
"I didn't plan it. I was bleeding. Saw your lights. It was the closest option."
"Lucky me."
"Lucky both of us."
I meet his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"It means you saved my life. In my world, that creates a bond. A debt." The air changes between us. Thins out, crackles…
"I don’t think you were quite at death’s door,” I say it slowly, carefully. “Besides, I don't want anything from you."
"I know. Which is exactly why I'm offering."
My heart is beating too fast. This is the moment. The moment where I should say no, should send him away, should go back to struggling alone rather than accepting help from a man who probably kills people for a living.
Who am I kidding? That’s exactly what he does.
But I'm so tired of struggling. So tired of drowning.
"One week," I say instead. "That was the deal. When you're healed, you go."
"And if I don't want to go?"
The question lands like a stone in water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing everything.
"Why wouldn't you?" I ask, scrubbing my face with my hands.
He leans forward slightly, ignoring the way it must pull at his wounds. "Because maybe I found something worth staying for."
My breath catches. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He is looking at me with such intensity I feel it in my bones.
"That's insane."
He nods once. "Probably." He doesn't look away when he says it. Doesn't take it back.
And I don't tell him to leave.
The afternoon passes in a strange haze. I go back downstairs to reopen the bakery. More empty hours. More silence. But now there's something else. A heaviness in my chest that might be anticipation, or it might be dread.
At five, I close up early. The day's earnings barely cover the cost of the ingredients used in the goods I’ll have to throw away before tomorrow.
Upstairs, Zakhar has moved to the kitchen table. Still shirtless, still bandaged, but looking stronger. More present.
"You should eat," he says when I enter.
"I'm not hungry,” I counter, moving through the small space with my laptop.
"Lily."
The way he says my name makes me stop. Firm. Almost commanding.
"I'm fine."
"You're exhausted. You barely ate this morning; you had nothing for lunch. Sit down." He pulls out a chair at the small table.
I want to tell him he doesn't get to order me around in my own home. Instead, I sit.
He moves carefully, pulling things from my fridge that I didn't even know I had. Cheese. Bread. Some leftover soup. Within minutes, there's food in front of me.
"Eat," he says again, sitting across from me and eating his own portion.
It's good. Simple but warm. I didn't realize how hungry I was until the first bite.
"Better?" he asks when I'm halfway through.
"Yes."
"Good."
He continues to eat while he watches me. Like he's making sure I actually finish.
"You're very bossy for a guest," I say.
He snorts out a laugh. "You're very stubborn for someone who needs help."
"I don't need—"
"Yes.” His voice has taken on that firm quality again that makes me want to fight back and roll over in equal measure. “You do."
I set down my spoon. "And what do you get out of this? Out of helping me?"
His eyes hold mine. "I told you. I owe you. Or maybe I just want to."
"Nobody just wants to help. Not without expecting something in return."
"Then consider it payment. For saving my life."
"That's not—"
He cuts me off. "It is."
The certainty in his voice silences me. This man who I've known for three days, who I should be afraid of, who should be a danger to everything I've built. But when I look at him across my kitchen table, all I feel is a pull. Something magnetic and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
"I don't understand you," I say quietly.
He grins, and I swear it’s devastating. "You don't have to. Not yet."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I blush when it comes out as a whisper, telling myself to get a grip.
"It means we have time."
"Your week is already half over."
His mouth curves. That almost-smile again. "Then I'll have to make the most of it."
He stands, slowly, carefully crossing to where I'm sitting. He doesn't touch me, but he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"You're not alone anymore, Lily," he says quietly. "Whether you want to be or not."
My breath stutters. "That sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise."
Then he's moving away, back toward the couch. Leaving me sitting there, heart pounding, skin too hot, every nerve ending aware of him in a way that terrifies and excites me.
He does terrify me.
But not enough to make me send him away.
More than that, I like it. At some point between patching him up and now, I began to enjoy his company. Enjoy not being alone every minute of the day. At some point, I even confessed to myself that it was nice to be looked at by a man, even one as big and dangerous as Zakhar.
I clean up the dishes in silence. He settles back on the couch, closing his eyes.
I watch him for a long moment. This dangerous man in my safe space. This stranger who's become something else in just three days.
This is a complication I can't afford but don't want to lose.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll figure out what the hell I'm doing.
Tonight, I just need to sleep.
But when I lie in bed, door cracked so I can hear him if he needs anything, all I can think about is the way he looked at me across the kitchen table.
Like I was already his and soon he will be done waiting for me to catch up.