Page 78 of Breaking Away

The back of my neck prickles as he approaches.

Clumsily, I raise my chin. “Excuse me. Why were you, um, lurking like that?”

“Why were you sitting in the dark?”

My mouth twists. “When did you get in?”

“Last night.” I watch as his eyes travel down the length of me and then stop abruptly, locked on my knee. I look down and see it. The most minor of scuffs, probably from when my leg grazed the edge of his kitchen island or something.

“You’re hurt.” It’s not a question, but a statement. Before I can tell him it’s nothing, he’s already there, hunched over and inspecting it.

There’s nothing to inspect. It’s pink, somewhat sore, but there’s no blood or anything. My skin was barely scratched.

“It’s fine,” I say.

Calloused fingers feather along the joint. “Does it hurt to move?”

“Uh. No.” To show him, my thumb goes down and buffs out the mark.

“I’ll call a physiotherapist to come over. Just to make sure you’re okay.”

I laugh, but the sound fades when I see his expression. He’s not smiling back. It wasn’t a joke. “Oh, that’s very unnecessary. I’m good.”

“If you don’t have good knees, you can’t move. They’re the largest joints in your body. You can’t—you don’t want them compromised.”

Lokhov scans the pink mark again. One hand clenches enough for white knuckles to show. The other one probes to see if my knee is tender. “We should get you checked out to be sure, Basra.”

“Um, there’s no need. It’s really okay and more my fault. I was the one sitting in the dark. This place has a lot of switches and I didn’t know which one turned on what, and then I thought to myself, I should make it so you don’t notice me?—”

My explanation doesn’t make him happy. The opposite happens. Dark eyebrows storm down. Eyes narrow. Head cocks. His scowl deepens. “You living here is not contingent on being invisible.”

“… Okay.”

“I mean it.”

To my shock, he goes down on one knee.

His face is inches apart from mine. “Be loud if you want, Basra. Matter-of-fact, hate me if you want. Turn on all the lights and it won’t matter. You’ll still have keys to this apartment. Got it?”

Something warm and confusing lodges in my throat. “I’ll burn this place down,” I whisper, responding very inappropriately to all the things he’s just said.

Maybe it was the right response because the corner of his mouth twitches. Whatever intensity was rolling off Lokhov just seconds ago has softened. He gets up.

“Wait here,” he orders.

I listen, mostly still processing. The promise of having keys to this apartment, no matter how I behave, flutters inside me. I’m sifting through the meaning. His intention. Can it be true?

When Lokhov comes back, my mouth gapes open. He sits down beside me and lifts my leg so it drapes over his lap. In his hand is an alcoholic wipe and a bandaid.

“I don’t like that,” I say, pointing to the wipe. ”What if it stings?”

“I’ll distract you.” He tears it open. There’s a distinct ripping sound that has me thinking of other squares of foil being opened. Heat curls downwards, treacherously. I fight to keep a neutral face.

“Look at me, Kavi.”

I’m staring at the alcohol wipe in his hand. Dmitri’s knuckle goes under my chin, lifting my face up towards him.

“Will you show me your work?”

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