Chapter 32
Two weeks later and the house still feels like a fortress Cole has built around himself.
I have reassured him more times than I can count.
Nobody is coming for me. Not the police, not anyone.
I know for a fact my father’s case was closed as simple alcohol poisoning — no investigation, no suspicion, nothing.
We are safe. But Cole has barely left the house except for practice and games.
He is spiraling quietly, the kind of spiral that looks like normal Cole on the surface but is all sharp edges underneath.
I am in the living room when I hear the shower turn off. A few minutes later Cole comes out with towel wrapped low around his waist, water still dripping from his curls. He looks determined. Too determined.
“I figured it out,” he declares.
I look up from where I am sitting on the couch. “Cole…”
“No, listen. I’ve narrowed it down.” He walks closer, still damp and beautiful and clearly running on anxiety and too little sleep.
I stand up and go to him, running my fingers through his wet curls, trying to ground him. “Baby…”
“If we flee,” he starts, eyes bright with that frantic energy I have come to recognize too well.
“Soroka…”
“Argentina, Iceland or New Zealand. I think New Zealand is safest.”
I stare at him.
He keeps going, words tumbling out faster. “I looked at everything — visas, new identities, how to disappear without raising flags. We could sell the houses, transfer money quietly, get new passports if we have to. I have contacts, I can—” He does not have contacts. I do.
I pull him into my chest, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other still in his hair, holding him tight against me. He is shaking slightly. The laptop on the coffee table is still open, every tab a roadmap to running away. I do not close them. I just hold him.
“Cole,” I murmur into his wet hair. “We are not fleeing. No one is coming. I promise you.”
He makes a small, frustrated sound against my chest but doesn’t pull away.
“We could do it quietly, Vik. Sell everything under different names, move the money through offshore accounts — I looked it up. New Zealand has good privacy laws. We’d be safe.
No one would find us. We could change our names, get new passports if we have to, start over completely.
Argentina is too obvious, Iceland might be too cold even for you, but New Zealand—"
I watch him for a moment, my heart aching at how deep this fear has dug into him. Then I make a decision.
“How about a date,” I say calmly.
Cole visibly blue-screens, mouth still open mid-sentence. “Uhm… I don’t know, Vik. After playoffs? Or maybe we should run before the playoffs… but then Damian would kill us. Curls would think I abandoned him—”
“No,” I say, stepping closer and gently guiding him toward the bedroom. “A date. Get up.”
He keeps rambling the entire way, barely noticing what I am doing. “We could work as coaches to a kid’s school maybe, or maybe open a private ice rink. I’m fast, I could still skate, teach the kids how to chirp properly—”
I start dressing him. First the underwear, then soft sweatpants, then one of my hoodies because I know he likes wearing them.
He barely pauses. I dry his hair with a towel, brush through the curls carefully, put socks on his feet, then shoes.
All while he keeps explaining escape routes and backup plans like it is the most normal conversation in the world.
“—and if New Zealand doesn’t work we could go somewhere else, maybe—”
I tie his shoelaces, kneeling in front of him.
Cole freezes, staring down at me with wide, confused eyes. “What are you doing?” he asks.
I look up at him, my hands still on his shoes. “Taking you out on a date.”
Cole doesn’t register it for a bit. He just blinks at me, still deep in escape-plan mode.
“Like I said, Vik, probably after playoffs would be the best,” he says, distant, like we are still talking about running to New Zealand instead of the fact that I just dressed him and put shoes on him like a child.
I stand up and take his hand firmly in mine. I slip my own shoes on quickly, then start guiding him toward the front door. He follows for a few steps on autopilot before his brain catches up.
“Where are we going?” he asks, suddenly sinking his heels in like a stubborn puppy.
“Out on a date, Cole! OUTSIDE.” I growl, my patience fraying. “You are driving me insane. You need out of the house. Fuck, I need out of the house.”
Cole’s mouth snaps shut. I keep a firm grip on his hand and drag him toward the car, ignoring the way he sputters half-formed protests under his breath. The cold air hits us as soon as we step outside, and for the first time in weeks I feel like I can actually breathe.
I open the passenger door for him and wait. Cole stares at me for a long second, a little lost, before he gets in without another word.
I close the door, walk around to the driver’s side, and start the engine. The silence in the car is heavy, but it is better than the silence in the house.
We are going on a date. Whether he likes it or not.
Cole fidgets in the passenger seat, fingers twitching like he cannot sit still. Then he pulls out his phone. “I need to call Curls, let him know we’re leaving after playoffs,” he says, already pressing Elias’ contact.
My hand shoots out, snatching the phone from his grip before he can hit call.
Cole freezes, his eyes going wide. “Vik—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut.
I roll my window down, fingers tightening around the phone like I might actually throw it into the night and let the road swallow it.
For one ugly second, I want to. Instead, I breathe once, hard through my nose, and throw it onto the back seat, far enough away that he cannot use it to run from this conversation.
Cole stares at me like I have lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
“VIK!”
“COLE!” I shout back, louder than I mean to.
I slam on the brakes hard enough that he has to brace against the dash as the car stops abruptly in front of the small Russian restaurant I usually go to alone — the one I have never taken him to.
“You need to stop. We are not running. You are safe. I am safe. Stop this.”
The car is silent except for our breathing. Cole looks at me, but underneath the shock I see the exhaustion, the fear, the way this has been eating him alive for weeks.
I turn off the engine and lean back in my seat, running a hand over my face. “Come on,” I say, quieter now. “We are eating inside, like normal people. No more escape plans tonight.”
Cole stares at the restaurant, then back at me, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to argue but cannot quite find the words. “Viktor but what if they find us??” Cole blurts out, voice cracking with fear as he twists in the passenger seat to face me fully.
“WHO?” I growl, turning to look at him, my patience hanging by a thread.
Cole gestures wildly. “The police! The league! Anyone! What if someone saw something, what if there was a camera, what if your mom says something, what if— what if they connect it to the Russians who attacked me? They’ll take you away, Vik!
They’ll put you in prison and I’ll never see you again and I can’t— I can’t do that, I won’t survive that—”
“Cole, there is no ‘they’!” My voice rises to match his. “The case is closed. Alcohol poisoning. No investigation. No cameras. No witnesses. My father drank himself to death in his own apartment and nobody gives a fuck because he was a piece of shit who hurt people his whole life. It is over.”
“But what if it’s not over?!” Cole shouts back, tears spilling down his cheeks again. “What if they reopen it? What if someone talks? What if Damian knows and he has to report it? What if— fuck, Vik, I made you do this, this is my fault, if they take you I’ll—”
“You did not make me do anything!” I cut him off, slamming my hand against the steering wheel.
“I chose. I chose you. I would choose you every single time. Stop punishing yourself for something I did because I love you. There is no one coming. No police. No league. No one. We are safe. You are safe. I am right here.”
Cole is breathing hard, tears still falling as he stares at me like he wants to believe me but the fear is too loud.
I reach over and grab his hand, squeezing tight. “We are not running,” I say again, quieter this time. “We are living. Now get out of the car. We are eating.”
Cole does not get out of the car. He turns to me instead, tears running down his face in steady streams. “You cannot expect me to live when I know the love of my life has killed his own father because of me,” he sniffles, small and broken.
I turn toward him again, and grab his face with both hands, thumbs wiping at the tears that keep falling.
“Listen to me, soroka. That man has abused me and my mother my entire life. I watched him beat her, curse her, turn the house upside down, felt his belt and his fists more times than I can count. Touching you was just the last straw. I did not do it because of you. I did it because of him. Now please, stop this madness, and let’s go eat. ”
Cole sniffles again, looking up at me with those wide, tear-filled eyes. I keep wiping his cheeks gently, waiting.
Finally, he nods. Shaky, but a nod.
I press my forehead to his, breathing him in. “Good boy,” I murmur softly. “Let’s go inside.”
We get out of the car, and I take Cole’s hand firmly in mine and guide him inside the small, warm restaurant.
The familiar smell of borscht, fresh bread, and grilled meats hits us immediately.
It is quiet tonight — only a few tables occupied.
I lead him to my usual booth in the corner with a nice view of the snowy street outside and gently push him into the seat.
The waitress — the same older woman who has served me for years — comes over with a kind smile.
“The usual?” she asks in Russian.
I nod. “Yes. But two portions.”
She glances at Cole with mild curiosity but says nothing and walks away. Cole stares after her, then turns those wide eyes back to me.
“What is… the usual?” he asks, his voice still a little shaky but genuinely curious now.
I reach across the table and take his hand again, stroking over his knuckles. “Borscht. Pelmeni. Some grilled meat and potatoes. Black tea. The things my mother used to make when she was happy. Nothing fancy. Just… home.”
Cole stares at me for a long moment, processing. The tears have dried but his eyes are still red-rimmed. He squeezes my hand back, small and tentative, like he is slowly coming back to himself.
The waitress returns with tea and bread, and for the first time in weeks Cole actually looks like he might eat something without me having to force the issue.
Cole takes a cautious sip of the strong black tea and his face scrunches up immediately — nose wrinkled, eyes squinting, mouth pulling into the most dramatic pout I have ever seen. It is so unexpectedly adorable that I cannot help the low chuckle that escapes me.
I flag the waitress down again and order him something milder — a sweeter fruit tea with honey. When she leaves, Cole stares at his cup like it personally betrayed him.
“How can you drink thiiis??” he whines, his voice pitching high and dramatic in that way that always makes my chest feel too full.
I actually laugh — a real, surprised sound that echoes softly in the quiet restaurant. Cole’s cheeks flush pink instantly and he huffs, crossing his arms and sinking a little lower in the booth.
“It is not that bad,” I say, still smiling as I reach across the table to take his hand again. “You will get used to it. Or not. The fruit tea will be better for you.”
He huffs again but does not pull his hand away. The blush stays on his cheeks, and for the first time in weeks he looks a little more like my Cole — dramatic, whiny, alive — instead of the anxious ghost who has been hiding in our house.
The food arrives shortly after, steaming and comforting, and I watch him carefully as he takes the first tentative bite.
Cole takes his first real bite of the borscht and moans — completely unashamed. Then he starts shoveling food into his mouth like someone is going to take the plate away from him at any second, barely chewing before the next spoonful.
“Slow down, magpie,” I chuckle, watching him with a fond smile I cannot hide.
He tries to answer with his mouth full, words completely muffled and garbled. “’S so good — fuck, why didn’t you bring me here sooner—”
I can barely understand a word, but the pure enthusiasm, the way his eyes light up with every bite, the little happy noises he keeps making between mouthfuls — it is the most alive I have seen him in weeks.
I reach across the table and gently wipe a bit of broth from the corner of his mouth with my thumb.
He pauses just long enough to give me a sheepish little grin, cheeks still stuffed, before diving back in. The fear is still there, lingering in the back of his eyes, but right now the food is winning.