Page 86 of Katya and the Young God

“Only to friends who I know would like them,” she says, tucking her phone and hand back underneath the quilt. “First day here, I sent them one of Stepan climbing onto this swing because I was upset.”

“He does that,” Pieter says, leaning against her a bit more, and it’s almost comfortable, almost comforting.

Of course, now that her hands are under the quilt, her phone beeps.

MIRI (3:43 PM): Why the fuck is the dog so happy it’s snowing.

MIRI (3:44 PM): That looks fucking miserable.

Pieter’s eyebrows draw up at the text.

“She’s a succubi, they’re always cold,” Katya says, the normal response sliding off her tongue with no effort. “We kept the office at eighty-two degrees and she still shivered.”

“You sent a picture of my dog to a secretary who took control of the computers of the Organization?” He asks, incredulous, almost offended. “You text pictures of animals to her?”

“She’s a friend,” Katya points out, hiding her hands from the cold again. “And she mostly just...helped the Archdemon.”

Again, a wild-eyed glance, like he’s not sure if she’s joking or lying or what. “We almost died and you’re texting pictures to someone with an Archdemon behind her.”

“We didn’t almost die back there,” Katya says. “We could’ve fought our way out.”

“They wouldn’t have been avoiding hurting you,” Pieter says, equally quick. “I would’ve been next to useless, and they had more firepower.”

“I don’t count it,” Katya says, giving in and all but snuggling against him, because the air is cold and he is anything but. “I only count actual injuries and actual attempts.”

“You keep track?” He asks, strangled.

“You don’t?” She shoots back, and he shakes his head, wrinkling his nose at her. “It’s an important statistic to consider.”

“You are beyond strange,” he blurts out, like this is the one piece of information about her he can’t comprehend. “What sort of mortal human keeps track of how many times they’ve almost fucking died.”

“If you include the mountain as only one instance, it’s thirty-seven,” she says, and there’s a strange bubble of warmth inside her, a strange sense of pride that she can puzzle a Demigod who’s been on this planet for at least three hundred years.

He stills against her, his hands still above the quilts, but he just smooths the blanket over his lap. “How many did I cause?”

The snow falls a little bit steadier, and Stepan trots up to them before flopping over on the porch in front of them, as Katya weighs how to answer.

“Directly...I would say three, if we count under the mountain,” she says, slowly. “The time...with the shoulder, and then the time you scared Aimes by her car.”

He sucks in a breath at the name, before shaking it off. “I forgot that was you,” he says, and he’s tender. “We...we didn’t know who she was, yet, then.” He cuts off with a small sound at the back of his throat, like it’s just as uncomfortable for him to talk about, before he swings his face towards her, eyes intent. “I’m sorry.”

Katya doesn’t break the eye contact, no matter how desperately she wants to, instead stilling herself, stilling her instinct to pull away, to press against her scar, and instead just looks at him.

And he’s going to help her save a child. Work to save a young god, work to remove some power from people who shouldn’t have it, who should be ashamed of anything they try to do with it.

“You saved me a bunch under the mountain, so I think we’re even,” she finally manages, but doesn’t want to look away, doesn’t let herself look away. “I counted at least four times.”

His lips part in an almost breathless laugh, soundless, but so near. “You would’ve shot me if I hadn’t broken the gun,” he says, and his voice sounds like he’s marveling. “Katya, I think you will have to stop keeping track if you ever want to be sane.”

She blinks up at him, her heart warring with a chuckle in her throat.

By the look of it, he’s the same, his throat working while looking down at her, his gray eyes flicking between her lips, her throat, before finally her eyes.

They remain like this, as snow picks up, wind tossing flurries through the air, and she doesn’t know which one of them moves first, but their lips touch, soft and tentative.

Like he’s afraid that she’ll flinch away, that she’ll jerk back, that he’ll break her with such a soft touch.

But she leans into the kiss, into him, and his lips are cold from the air, his cheeks a little bit wind-chapped no matter how warm his body is.

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