14. Daniil
Daniil
The sound of Mikhail cutting through the water makes me bite my lip and glance over at him. He’s swimming in slow circles, burning off energy the way he always does when his brain won’t shut up. We’re supposed to go home today, and I don’t know how to bring it up or how to ask what we are now.
This trip was way too short. I needed more time, more days like this where it’s just the two of us and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I want to bottle up these last few days and replay them on a loop, live in them forever instead of going back to reality.
Are things going back to normal when we go home? Will he just want to forget about this and pretend it never happened? I don’t know what hurts more: pining after him for eight years, finally getting him, and then having him walk away, or never having had him at all.
He finally swims to the edge and hauls himself out of the pool, water streams off him as he rubs his face and pushes the water away. He walks toward me and leans down, pressing his lips to mine in a soft kiss that makes my stomach flip.
“I’m going to shower before we leave.”
Managing a small nod, I watch him disappear inside, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts. My hands feel useless resting on my thighs. The burn marks scattered across my skin catch the sunlight, raised and permanent.
I’m so confused by the DNA results. I thought I’d get actual answers when I opened them, something concrete I could work with.
A name, an address, coordinates to a life I could track down and demand explanations from. My mom or dad living somewhere, existing in a way I could reach. Instead it’s just percentages and one random old woman in Germany.
Going to Germany is unrealistic. I don’t have the time or the resources to chase down a stranger on another continent based on a percentage match.
But I can dig into her digital footprint when we get back, see if there’s anything useful buried in public records or social media.
Maybe she has family listed, maybe there’s a connection I’m missing. It’s something, at least.
Pushing up from the sun chair, I make my way into the house.
The sound of the shower running echoes from the bedroom’s bathroom, and I head there, sitting down on the edge of the bed to wait for him to finish.
My leg bounces anxiously, and I pick at my nails until the beds are raw and stinging.
The nervous energy won’t settle, just keeps buzzing through me with nowhere to go.
I can’t go back to how things were before or pretend I don’t want him, not now that I know what it feels like to have him. But I also can’t force him to want this if he doesn’t.
The shower cuts off, and a few minutes later he comes out, water still dripping down his shoulders. He bends down to grab clothes from his bag and lets the towel drop. I watch him pull on black boxer briefs, then shorts, then one of his worn t-shirts.
When he glances over at me, something in his expression shifts. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t get the words out. My fingers come up to my lip, and I bite at them anxiously, the familiar sting grounding me for half a second.
“Just thinking,” I finally say.
“About?” He sits down on the edge of the bed next to me.
This is it. I either ask now, or I lose my chance forever.
“About what happens when we get home.” I clear my throat. “About us.”
He freezes, his entire body going still. When he turns to look at me, his expression is unreadable. “I don’t really know, Danya. The trip was way too short. The things I want now aren’t the same as when we arrived here.”
“I know.”
“Time doesn’t stop just because we go home. I mean, we could take some time to think about things back there too.”
That hits me wrong. The careful tone, the vague deflection like he’s already decided something and won’t say it outright. He’s pulling away, I can feel it happening. He fucked his brother and now reality’s crashing back in, and he realizes how messed up it all is.
Pushing myself up from the bed, I rub the back of my neck and start pacing.
My thoughts spiral faster than I can process them, racing through every possible outcome and landing on the worst ones.
This was temporary. He got what he wanted, and now it’s over.
I’m going to have to watch him go back to how things were, pretend this never happened while I’m stuck knowing exactly what I’m missing.
Is he going to go back to fucking girls? What if he didn’t like being with me and he’s already regretting it? The idea of sitting in my room listening to them through the walls, the bed slamming against the other side while some girl moans his name—it makes me sick.
I still remember the cheap perfume on his clothes, lying awake wondering whose bed he was in, watching him leave and not knowing if he’d come home or pass out in someone else’s sheets.
Eight years of that nearly ended me. I got rid of most of the girls before anything happened, but the ones who slipped past me destroyed me. I can’t survive that again. If it goes back to how it was, I’ll lock myself in my room and slit my wrists.
“Listen.” He stands and puts his hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid-pace. “We have so much—”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” The words blurt out of me before I can stop them, desperate and pathetic.
“What?”
“What we did doesn’t have to mean anything.
” I swallow hard, and it feels like choking on glass.
“You don’t have to go back to fucking girls.
We could keep doing this without it meaning anything, keep it casual so it’s not weird.
Or we could chalk it up to a fun trip and pretend it never happened, if that’s what you want.
You don’t have to stop talking to me just because we hooked up. ”
He lets go of me and pulls back like I burned him. Confusion flashes across his face before it twists into anger. His brows pull together, and he stares at me for a long moment before rubbing his jaw and cursing under his breath.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying you don’t have to go back to them. The girls. We could keep doing this instead, no strings, nothing complicated. Or if you want to forget it happened, we can do that too. Just—you don’t have to fuck gi—”
“Stop,” he cuts me off, his voice tight. “Just stop talking for a second.”
Closing my mouth, my heart hammers against my ribs. Please don’t go back to hooking up with girls. I’ll take whatever he gives me if it means I never have to listen to him fuck someone else again.
He stares at me for a long moment, his jaw working as he clearly tries to control whatever he’s feeling.
“I’m so fucking over this,” he snaps suddenly, his voice going hard and cold.
“Over what?”
“You! I’m over you, Danya.” He throws his hands up, frustrated and furious all at once. “Why do you always do this? I’m so tired of having to chase after you. Every single time I get close, you push me away. Every time.”
Wait—that’s not what I meant. That’s what I thought he wanted to hear.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean what? That it meant nothing? Because that’s what you just said.”
“No, I just thought—”
“You thought what? That I’d be relieved? You think me fucking you would mean nothing to me?”
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know I love him.
“I thought you’d want to go back to normal. To girls and—”
“Stop talking about girls!” His hands clench into fists. “Why do you keep bringing them into this?”
“Because that’s what makes sense for you. That’s what you’ve always—”
“What I’ve always what? Wanted? You don’t know what the fuck I want.”
“You’ve never been with a guy before, so obviously—”
“Obviously nothing, Danya. You’re making decisions for me again and I’m sick of it.”
“Mikhail, wait—”
“I’m done with this shit.” He grabs his bag from the floor and slings it over his shoulder. “I’m getting my own ride back.”
Everything inside me shatters into pieces I’ll never be able to put back together.
Panic floods my system. He’s leaving. He’s actually leaving.
“Mikhail, please, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Then how did you mean it, Danya?” He turns back to me and his eyes are blazing. “Because from where I’m standing, you just told me that everything we did meant nothing to you.”
“That’s not—” The words stick in my throat, refusing to come out.
I love you.
I’ve loved you for eight years.
Don’t go.
“I just thought you wanted an out. I thought you were pulling away, and I was trying to make it easier for you,” comes out instead.
“Make it easier?” He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You think telling me it meant nothing makes anything easier?”
“I don’t know what you want from me!”
“I want you to stop running!” His voice echoes in the cabin. “I want you to stop pushing me away every time we get close. I want you to actually talk to me instead of making decisions for both of us about what I supposedly want.”
“I’m trying to protect you—”
“From what? From me caring about you? You’re not protecting me, you’re protecting yourself. And I’m tired of it.”
“Mikhail—”
“I’m leaving.” He heads for the door.
Lunging forward, I grab his bag and rip it from his hands. “Please don’t go. Please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I swear—”
“Then what did you mean?” He jerks his arm free but doesn’t move toward the door. “Tell me what you actually meant, Danya. Because I can’t keep doing this with you.”
The words are right there.
I love you, and I’m terrified you don’t feel the same.
If we try this and you realize I’m not enough, it’ll destroy me.
I’ve wanted you for so long that having you and losing you would be worse than never having you at all.
But I can’t say any of that. The words won’t come.
He waits, staring at me, giving me one more chance.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
His face hardens, and he turns toward the door. “That’s what I thought. You know what? If you want to call it a mistake, fine. Then yeah, it was a fucking mistake. The biggest one I’ve ever made.”
Mistake? My stomach drops.
“I can’t—” My voice breaks. “The words won’t—”
He stops but doesn’t turn around.
But nothing comes out except a choked sound.
He finally turns around and rips his bag out of my grip and storms toward the door. He shoves his feet into his shoes without even tying them, doesn’t look back once as he slams the door so hard the entire frame rattles, and the sound echoes through the empty cabin.
Standing there frozen, I stare at the door, my heart hammering so hard it hurts. My hands shake, and my throat feels too tight to breathe.
He’s gone, and I couldn’t even tell him the truth. A minute passes, maybe more. I don’t know. My feet won’t move, and I can’t think straight.
Then I take off running and throw the door open.
The driveway is empty besides my car, and I run down the entire length on my socks, the stones scraping and cutting into my feet but I keep going. I make it to the gate and press the code with shaking hands, then burst through onto the road and look frantically in both directions.
He’s nowhere in sight.
I ruined everything. I pushed him away too many times, and this time he finally left me when I finally got what I wanted.
Him. My eyes start burning, and I sink down onto the asphalt, pulling my knees up to my chest. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands before I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Me:
I’m sorry, please come back.
I type it out and stare at it. Delete it.
Me:
It meant everything to me.
I type that too and stare at the words on the screen. Delete it.
None of it feels right. None of it is enough.
And even if I could send it, even if I could make myself press that button, it wouldn’t fix what I broke.
He deserves better than a text message after everything.
He deserves someone who can tell him how they feel instead of panicking and pushing them away every time things get real.
The heat soaks through my clothes and the gravel cuts into my feet. All I can think about is the look on his face right before he left. Fuck, I’m the biggest idiot alive. I’ve hurt him more times than I can count, and this might be the one that breaks us.