Page 142 of The Pucking Arrangement

I bite my lip. Hard. Because crying is not an option. “Galina’s here now, sweetie. And I have to get ready for my trip.”

“You can get ready here,” she argues, the kind of pure, devastating child logic that makes adults sound like complete idiots. “You can practice in the music room. You said it has the best light.”

I exhale, crouching down to her level. “I know. But sometimes grown-ups need their own space.”

Her bottom lip wobbles. “Don’t you like us anymore?”

Oh God. If my heart wasn’t already splintered, that just shattered it completely.

“I love you both so much it hurts,” I whisper, pulling her into a hug before she can see the tears welling up. “But your papa needs his house back. And I need to?—”

What, exactly?

Run before I get in too deep?

Before I let myself want something I can’t have?

Before Dmitri confirms what I already know—that I was never meant to stay?

“Cello’s downstairs.”

The deep rumble of his voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

I look up. Dmitri fills the doorway, arms crossed, expression carefully blank.

“Anything else you need carried down?”

I straighten, swiping at my eyes as discreetly as possible. “Just these two bags.”

A single nod. Then he steps forward and lifts both suitcases like they weigh nothing. Those arms—those ridiculous arms—the same ones that held me last night like they never wanted to let go.

The same ones I clung to while we pretended this wasn’t ending.

Last night was like drowning, and neither of us fought it. We let it pull us under, hands grasping, mouths desperate, bodies pressed so close it felt like we could will time to stop. He touched me like he was memorizing every inch, like I was something fleeting. I left marks on his back, proof that I’d been there, that I’d mattered.

But not once—not once—did either of us say the words that could have changed today’s goodbye.

Instead, we held each other through the night, tracing silent patterns against skin, pretending morning would never come.

But it did.

And now here we are.

Me, trying to look fine while breaking apart piece by piece.

Him, stacking bricks on top of bricks, building his walls so high I can’t even see over them anymore.

“Breakfast is ready,” he says, voice gruff. “You should eat before we leave.”

His eyes won’t meet mine. Haven’t really met mine since this morning.

“No, I’m good,” I lie. Because if I try to eat anything now, it’ll just sit like cement in my stomach. “We should probably just get going. Rip the bandage off.”

He flinches. Just the tiniest shift, barely there. But I catch it, because I’ve spent weeks cataloging his micro-expressions like they might mean something.

Like he might still stop me.

“Are we ever going to see you again?”

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