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Nikolai Levin
The drive back to the penthouse was quiet, saved from complete silence only by the car radio broadcasting highlights from the funeral. Lev switched it off immediately.
My hands rested motionless in my lap. They looked so ordinary, as if they hadn’t been gripping a knife just twenty minutes ago. I rubbed a thumb over my palm—no blood, no trembling, just plain skin.
The air inside the car felt impossibly heavy. Neither the driver nor Lev spoke, and I didn’t blame them; there wasn’t anything to say.
When Lev dropped me at the penthouse, he left right away to fetch Pavel.
I wandered aimlessly into the kitchen. The kettle still held leftover tea, so I poured a cup, but it had already gone stone cold.
Before I could take a sip, the doorbell chimed.
Pavel stood in the doorway. For a second, neither of us moved. Then he stepped inside and threw his arms around me so hard I nearly dropped the mug.
“You idiot,” he muttered against my shoulder. “You absolute idiot.”
I let out a soft laugh. “I missed you too.”
He pulled back, scanning me head-to-toe as if checking for missing limbs. “You look awful.”
“I’ve had better days.”
“No kidding.” He kicked his shoes off by the foyer without waiting for an invitation and held up a plastic bag from the corner store. “I brought food. Wasn’t sure if you’d eaten.”
“I have.”
“When?”
I had to pause and think. “…Actually—”
He let out a dramatic sigh. “Knew it. You haven’t touched a thing.” He marched into the kitchen like he owned the place, and a second later, the microwave door slammed shut. “You still have instant noodles?”
“I was saving those.”
“For what?”
“Days where I just feel like.”
He shot a look over his shoulder. “Oh Niko.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
For the next two hours, neither of us brought up Babushka, or the funeral, or the past week that felt simultaneously like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
We talked about the nightmare customers he’d thrown out of the shop, the guy who argued that energy drinks counted as a balanced breakfast, and his manager threatening to fire the entire shift over stolen scratch cards.
We talked about anything and everything, and the sheer normalcy of it grounded me.
Eventually, Pavel leaned back into the sofa cushions, his grin fading. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He studied my face for a minute. “Why were you so distant?”
I frowned. “Distant?”
“All week.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he raised a hand to cut me off.
“I know,” he said, his tone softening. “I know you were grieving, and I know losing Babushka hit you hard.” He looked down at the mug cupped in his hands. “But shutting me out like that… it hurt, Niko.”
I couldn’t find any words.
“Imagine finding out Babushka died from Mrs. Romanov,” he continued, a hollow laugh escaping him. “Katerina called me, not you. I kept waiting for my phone to ring, thinking, He’s probably crying his eyes out, he’ll call when he’s ready. But you never did.”
I stared at him, a tight knot forming in my stomach. Something about what he was saying didn’t align—not because he was lying, but because I had no memory of doing any of it.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I really am.”
Pavel looked at me, then shook his head. “I know. That’s why I’m trying so hard to stay angry, but you’re making it ridiculously difficult.”
Glancing at the wall clock above the television, he winced. “Damn. I’ve really got to run.”
“So soon?”
“Shift starts in an hour,” he groaned, pushing himself off the couch. “If I’m late, my manager is going to start firing off those passive-aggressive texts she loves so much.”
A quiet laugh escaped me as he threw his jacket back on and slung his bag over his shoulder. I walked him to the entryway, but just before stepping into the hall, he turned around with his arms crossed.
“You know, you’ve become remarkably difficult to visit lately.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Have I?”
“Mhm. You went and got yourself a billionaire fiancé,” he teased, sighing heavily. “I’ll probably have to book an appointment next time.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re absurd.”
His grin widened. “So next time you aren’t completely wrapped up with your husband, come visit me instead.”
Heat crept up my neck. “He isn’t my husband.”
“Yet.”
“Pavel.”
“What?” He raised his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just planning for the future.”
I shook my head, laughing despite myself. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’d better.” He stepped out toward the elevator, pausing one last time as the doors slid open. The teasing left his face, replaced by quiet sincerity. “And Niko… I’m glad you’re smiling again.”
“So am I.”
“Tell your terrifying fiancé I said thanks for looking after you.”
“I will.”
* * *
Olga was nowhere to be found in the penthouse, and the rest of the kitchen staff had already turned in for the evening. Zhenya had promised we’d hold our own pominki once he got back, but with no one left to cook, the responsibility fell on me.
I drifted into the walk-in pantry and stood in the doorway, taking it all in.
The Romanov way of living still managed to catch me off guard—neatly labeled glass jars filled with every grain imaginable, fresh herbs resting in woven baskets beside piles of crisp vegetables.
Everything sat in its exact place, looking virtually untouched.
I browsed the shelves, gathering ingredients as I went. If Zhenya had managed to force down any food at White Manor, it undoubtedly would have been the traditional mourning spread—kutya, blini, kissel. I decided to pivot and make something grounded instead: Beef Solyanka. Pure comfort food.
Opening the commercial refrigerator, I found prime beef, cured ham, and thick-cut bacon. I hesitated for a moment, realizing I had no idea which cut he actually preferred, so I grabbed all three. Better safe than sorry.
I was halfway through dicing the onions when the elevator chimed softly in the foyer. Abandoning the cutting board, I hurried into the living room just as the doors slid open.
Zhenya stepped out, but before he could utter a word, I closed the distance and wrapped my arms around his waist.
He let out a low, breathless laugh. “Someone clearly missed me.”
“A little.”
He returned the hug, then leaned back just far enough to scan my face before his nose subtly twitched. “…Why do you smell like onions?”
I looked down at my hands. “Oh. I was cooking—for our pominki.”
His eyebrows flicked upward. “You’re cooking?”
“I figured you’d had your fill of kutya and blini at the manor,” I said, looking up at him. “So I’m making Solyanka instead.”
A genuine smile slowly took over his face. “I haven’t eaten.”
I blinked. “At all?”
He shook his head softly. “I wasn’t particularly hungry.”
“Then the timing is perfect.” I smiled up at him. “I didn’t see Olga around, so I took over.”
He didn’t look away, and the subtle shift in his eyes sent a sudden wave of nerves right to my stomach.
He raised his bandaged palm slightly. “I’m going to wash up first and get out of these clothes.” His eyes cut toward the kitchen. “Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”
I gasped in mock outrage. “You severely underestimate me.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him as he stepped closer, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead before heading toward the staircase. “Ten minutes.”
I watched until he disappeared up the hall, a faint smile tugging at my lips, before turning back toward the kitchen island.
Those onions weren’t going to chop themselves.
A short while later, footsteps sounded on the stairs. I looked up from the stove just as Zhenya walked into the kitchen.
He’d swapped the tailored suit for a soft blue cardigan—sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms—and dark lounge pants. Without the sharp lines and polished shoes, he looked younger. Almost normal.
He pulled up a stool at the island and leaned back to watch me work.
My eyes gravitated straight to his bandaged palm. “How did you shower with that?”
He glanced down at the dressing. “Very carefully.”
I laughed. “I was expecting a much more dramatic story.”
“I’m saving the drama for when the scar makes me look interesting.”
I smiled, turning my attention back to the pot. For a few minutes, the only sound was the low bubble of the stew and my knife tapping steady against the board.
Then the stool scraped softly against the floor.
“Anything left to chop?”
I looked over to find him already on his feet. “No,” I said quickly. “You need to rest your hand.”
He held up the bandage. “It still functions.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
He studied me for a second. “At least let me do something.”
I hesitated. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “I don’t want you getting hurt, either.”
I looked at the spread across the counter, then let out a resigned sigh. “The ham. And the pickles. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He nodded.
For the next hour, we fell into a rhythm side by side.
I kept watch over the Solyanka while he carefully cubed the meat and minced garlic with surprising precision.
Every so often I’d glance over to check that he wasn’t putting too much weight on his injured hand—only to find him already looking back at me.
When the stew finished, we carried the bowls into the dining room ourselves. The first spoonful went down in total silence.
I waited, hovering somewhere between nervous anticipation and outright dread.
Then Zhenya took a second bite. Then a third.
Only after he was halfway through the bowl did he finally look across the table.
“Nikolai…” He paused, letting the silence drag just long enough to make my stomach drop. “…this is incredible.”
My chest finally gave way, releasing the tension trapped in my lungs.
“Thank you. It is one of pavel’s favorite recipes.”
He went back to his food. Watching him eat—watching him actually enjoy something I’d made from scratch—settled a deep warmth in my chest that had been missing for days.
When we finished, we cleared the table together and drifted into the living room.
* * *
The television hummed quietly in the background, though neither of us was paying it any attention.
I was stretched out across the sofa with my head resting in Zhenya’s lap while he aimlessly scrolled through his phone. Every so often, his fingers would drift into my hair, running through it without him even seeming to realize he was doing it.
There was a question that had been hovering in my mind ever since Pavel left—something only one person could clear up.
“…Zhenya?”
“Mhm?” He didn’t look up from the screen.
“At the cemetery,” I started, my voice dropping a notch, “you said you were hugging me for a week’s worth of time.”
His thumb froze mid-scroll.
“And earlier… Pavel said I completely ignored him for an entire week.” I hesitated. “I don’t remember any of it.”
He set the phone down on the cushion beside him. “You don’t?”
I shook my head. “The last thing I actually recall…” I paused, trying to piece the fog together. “…was crying after i got back from the hospital. And seeing you kissing someone.”
He blinked. “I wasn’t kissing her.”
“You were,” I insisted. “I saw you. You left me standing out in the rain.”
He stared down at me for a beat before letting out a quiet sigh.
“Nikolai… I never kissed Inessa.”
“Well, you were facing her, and from where I was standing, it looked like a kiss.”
He took a slow breath and, with infinite patience, started from the beginning: the rain, the drive to Tver, Inessa, Fyodor, the confrontation, and the slap.
“The slap?” I sat straight up so fast I nearly clipped his bandaged hand. “I slapped you?”
“You did.”
I slammed both hands over my mouth. “No…”
“You also called me a liar.”
“I did?”
“And you threatened to pack up and leave the penthouse.”
My eyes went wide. “I would never—”
“You did.”
“Oh my God…”
A small smile finally broke through his composure. “I’ve discovered your palm carries surprising force.”
I buried my face in my hands, groaning into my palms. “I can’t believe this. This is so much worse.”
His warm laughter filled the space between us. “You can ask Lev if you think I’m making it up.”
“I don’t need to,” I muttered, peeking through my fingers at him. “I believe you.”
The humor drained out of me just as quickly as it had come.
“In one week…” I looked down at my hands. “I went completely absent. I hit you. And…” My eyes drifted to the clean white bandage on his palm. “…I did that.”
The room went dead quiet.
The last time I’d had an episode like this was years ago—long enough that I’d managed to convince myself that part of me was gone for good. But it hadn’t disappeared; it had just been lying in wait.
The past seven days didn’t feel like time I’d actually lived.
It felt borrowed. Like someone had reached into my head, turned off the lights, and quietly locked the door behind them.
No dreams, no memories, no sense of time passing.
Then suddenly, I was awake again, sitting in the same body, left to deal with choices I had no recollection of making.
It didn’t feel like waking up from a deep sleep. It felt like crawling out of someone else’s skin.
“…Nikolai.”
I looked up to find Zhenya’s fingers lacing through mine.
“It’s over,” he said in a steady voice. “You came back.”
His thumb brushed gently across my knuckles.
“And that’s all that matters.”