Thirty-Six
Arseny
He’s rolled half on top of me, half tangled in my arms, all elbows and that stupid quiet focus he gets when he’s paying attention. He’s not teasing; he’s just there. Present, it does stupid things to my head. “Say something to me in Russian,” Caiden murmurs, his mouth brushing my lips. “It’s sexy.”
I snort softly. “That’s because you don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Still sounds hot,” he says. I roll my eyes and flip us, pinning him more comfortably beneath me; my knee nudges between his thighs, and he makes a quiet, happy sound.
“Ty krasivyy.” You are beautiful, I say without thinking, brushing my thumb along his cheekbone.
He hums. “I’m going to assume that was flattering.”
“Very,” I confirm. My mouth hovers over his. “U tebya krasivyye guby.” You have beautiful lips.
He laughs under his breath. “You say that like you’re evaluating me.”
“I am,” I murmur, kissing him slowly. He groans quietly, his grip tightens on my ass. I grin against his mouth and keep going, because this is easy.
This is safe.
“Mne nravitsya tvoya zadnitsa,” I like your ass. I add, in a low and teasing tone.
“Oh?” he asks, sounding amused. “That one sounded promising.”
“It was,” I say smugly, rocking my hips just enough to make him suck in a breath. I should stop; my brain is loose, warm, and entirely unguarded. My forehead drops to his; he’s smiling up at me, his eyes a little unfocused.
And then I say it.
The three words I can’t ever take back.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.” I love you. Caiden doesn’t laugh, and the moment stretches.
He doesn’t react at all, in fact, not at first. His hands are still, and his breath catches, as if something unexpected brushed past him.
I feel it then. A hitch in the air. A wrongness that makes me pull back slightly. “What?” I ask.
He blinks slowly, like he’s questioning something. “Hmm?” he says lightly. “Sounded intense.” He doesn’t say anything else; he pulls me in and kisses me deeply.
Then he breaks the kiss and rips me open. “Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.” I love you too. The world drops out from under me. My hands lock up first, still pressed against his chest under his shirt, then my brain just... stalls, like someone yanked the power cord.
I stare at him because what the fuck? Then I’m kissing him hard and messily. He laughs softly into it, surprised, and it only makes me kiss him harder. I don’t know what I’m trying to prove — that he meant it. That I didn’t imagine it. That he can’t take it back. All of the above?
His hands come up; his thumbs brush my jaw; it’s so gentle in a way that makes my heart skip.
“Krasivyy.” Beautiful, he murmurs against my mouth. I make a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a laugh and kiss him again, deeper this time, slower, like my body is trying to catch up with what my head still can’t process.
I break the kiss, laugh, and knock my forehead into his because I’ve lost all spatial awareness and most of my dignity.
“Ty durak.” You’re an idiot, he murmurs fondly.
I freeze. “What?” I say hoarsely. He pulls back just enough to look at me. His expression isn’t teasing; it’s open, warm, and completely unafraid.
“My beautiful idiot,” he says gently.
My hands are tight in his shirt, and I drop my forehead to his shoulder because suddenly my neck won’t hold my head up anymore. I stay there, breathing unevenly, if I lift my face, something is going to spill out that I don’t know how to put back.
“You weren’t supposed to know,” I mutter into his collarbone. His hand slides slowly up my back, and I breathe out a long, shaky breath. Then I pull back to look at him again. I feel stripped, no armour left. Just... me. “You understood,” I say.
“Da,” he whispers, kissing me again, softly.
“You’ve been learning?” I ask, breaking the kiss, trying to stay composed.
“Ochevidno.” Obviously.
“You said it back,” I say quietly, like I’m still checking the physics.
“I meant it.” I stare at him for another second, then I kiss him again. When I finally pull back, I rest my forehead against his; my eyes are still closed. “Fuck,” I whisper.
He smiles; his breath is warm against my mouth. “Yeah, fuck.”
“There’s a posting list,” I say, because my mouth has never learned when to stop.
“It’s—” Caiden doesn’t let me finish. He catches my face in both hands and kisses me, physically interrupting the sentence.
I make a noise of protest that dies immediately because his mouth is warm, sure, familiar, and I’m weak where he’s concerned.
“Don’t,” he murmurs against my lips. “Don’t do that.”
I frown. “Do what?”
“I’ve already seen it. I know the dates. I know the times. I know exactly how fucked this is.”
“So let me say it,” I start. “Let me—”
“No,” he says softly. “We’re not doing that.” His thumb brushes under my eye. “Not right now. Not here.”
I swallow. “Detka—”
“I love you, Arseny,” he says as if he’s daring me to argue with him. My brain goes blank, but he doesn’t rush me, and he doesn’t fill the silence. He stays there, his warm hands on my face, eyes locked on mine, braced for impact and willing to take it.
“I love you, Caiden,” I whisper back.
“So shut up. Stop thinking. Stop counting.” He exhales. “Let me have you for five more minutes without the world getting involved.” My insides give way, and it breaks me open.
I kiss him again, like I’m agreeing to a crime.
His mouth is still on mine when the world comes back into focus. It’s not gradual; it slams in all at once. There’s a shout outside the truck. It’s fast, urgent, and too loud to ignore. “Arseny!” I freeze. “Ars— fuck, where are you?”
I pull back just enough to listen, my heart’s already hammering like it’s trying to vacate my body. Caiden’s hands stay on me, holding on for whatever’s coming next.
The tarp at the back of the truck jerks.
“Arseny!” Niko barks again. “There you are—” He stops dead when he sees us.
For a second, nobody moves. Then Niko’s face changes.
He’s not annoyed; he’s gone pale in a way I’ve only ever seen once or twice before.
“It’s time,” he says. “She’s in labour. It’s happening. Now.”
I don’t realise what he’s said at first.
Baby. Now. Time. Shit.
Caiden’s grip tightens instinctively, like he’s holding me in place while my brain scrambles to reassemble itself. I nod once. “I’m coming.”
Niko steps back immediately, already turning away. “Good. We don’t have time.” The tarp falls back into place and for one last second, it’s just us again. Caiden leans in and presses his forehead to mine.
“Go,” he says softly, not letting me apologise. “I’m here.” I don’t trust my voice, so I kiss him instead.
Then I’m gone.
The jeep tyres cut through snow as if I could slice through time itself if I push hard enough.
Niko’s in the passenger seat, his knee bouncing, fingers white-knuckled around the grab handle.
He’s talking, half to me, half to himself.
The words tumble over each other. Time, contractions, doctor.
He keeps repeating now, like if he says it enough times, it’ll stop being real.
“Breathe,” I say, calm as if we’re heading to a briefing. “You’re doing that thing again.”
He huffs. “What thing?”
“Panicking in bullet points.” He glares at me, annoyed, but he knows I’m right, and he hears me. His breathing stutters, then slows, dragging it into a rhythm while I keep my eyes on the road. “She packed the bag?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Has the paperwork?”
“Yes, Ari,” he snaps.
“Good. Then you’re ahead of the situation, not behind it.”
“That’s not how childbirth works,” he snaps again.
“No,” I agree. “But it’s how you work.” That gets a shaky exhale out of him. As I drive, I feel the weight from the last hour pressing in on me— the truck, the tarp, Caiden’s mouth on mine, the words still ringing in my skull — and I shove it all down hard.
There will be time for that later.
Niko rubs his face with both hands. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “You listen. You don’t faint.”
“I’m not going to faint.”
“You absolutely look like you might.”
He snorts. “I’m not ready for this.” I flick him a glance. He looks stripped of his usual certainty. Right now, he’s not a soldier; he’s just a man panicking, about to become someone’s father.
“No one ever is,” I say.
He scoffs weakly. “That’s a terrible reassurance.”
“You’ll do fine. You always do,” I say honestly, that finally shuts him up.
The hospital comes into view quickly, and I pull in hard, throwing the car into park.
Niko’s already flying out of the door before I’ve killed the engine.
“Hey,” I bark, grabbing his arm. He turns and looks at me wild-eyed.
“She’s already in good hands. Getting there calmly is more useful than getting there fast.”
He breathes in. “Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay.” We move through the car park together. At the desk, I give the information while Niko quietly has a heart attack. My mouth knows what to do even if my head is still lagging behind reality.
They take Niko back first, and I don’t follow.
I stop in the hallway, my hands on my hips, my chest rising and falling as if I’ve just run a mile.
The adrenaline starts to ebb, leaving behind the tremor underneath.
I press my fingers briefly into the bridge of my nose, and it’s just enough to get my feet back under me.
Then I straighten up, because whatever comes next, I need to be standing for it.
— and because, for the first time in a long time, there’s more than one life I’m not allowed to drop.
Time stretches in places like this. Hospitals don’t move forward so much as they loop.
I’ve been in the waiting room long enough to memorise the crack in the vinyl chair opposite me, and the flicker in the fluorescent light that never quite commits to going out when the door finally opens, and the doctor steps out.
He looks calm, tired, and professional all at once.
He looks at me, then at the clipboard, then back again. “Arseny Zakirov?”
“Yes,” I say, straightening up.