Page 15 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Petyr.

It was ridiculous.I’d known him for what—six hours?Less?

And still, there he was.In my mind, flashing that crooked smile, eyes too blue to be trusted, hair like something out of an American movie.A man you don’t meet in real life.Or if you do, you keep walking and don’t look back.

Except I had looked back, more than once.

The strange man made me laugh.

That was the part I couldn’t shake.I never laughed.Not at strangers, not at jokes, not at anything really.Laughter was for people who didn’t know better.But Petyr had chipped away at me throughout lunch, like he knew just where to strike.

It had startled me when it came out of my mouth.The sound.Like something I’d forgotten how to do.And the way he’d looked at me when I laughed—it had made my chest feel strange.Too tight, and too warm, like I’d swallowed a hot piece of coal.

I pulled my coat tighter as the surrounding buildings grew familiar.Papa always said friends were dangerous.

“Don’t get too close,” he’d say.“A friend today is an informant tomorrow.”

He wasn’t wrong.I’d seen what happened to boys who trusted the wrong people.Rumors spread.Names on lists.One day, they didn’t come to school, or they stopped coming home.And everyone pretended not to notice.

I should know better.

But still, I couldn’t stop thinking about Petyr’s voice when he explained the looms.The way his hand had rested lightly on mine when he corrected the way I held the thread.His fingers had been warm and calloused.

I shook my head and climbed the stairs of my parent’s building, my heart doing a strange hiccup when I smelled food wafting from the hallway.Something tomato-based, with a hint of bay leaf.My mother always cooked when she was worried, which meant dinner would be excellent.

I opened the door, stepped inside, and immediately bent to unlace my boots.“Dimitri!”my mother called from the kitchen, and I walked in to find her stirring something red and steaming on the stove.She wiped her hands and kissed me on the cheek, eyes already scanning me like she expected bullet holes.

“Well?How was your first day at the factory?”

“Beats shooting strangers in Afghanistan,” I said with a shrug.

Her hand flew to her chest.“Bozhe moy, don’t say things like that.You’re not a fighter, Dimitri.You have always been so loving.”

That word landed like a slap I wasn’t expecting.

Loving.

I looked down at the floor, at the ancient tiles with the chipped corner near the table leg, and all I could see was Petyr’s face.Laughing.Smirking.Watching me like he knew I’d crack eventually and wasn’t in any kind of rush.

“Did you meet anyone nice?”she asked, turning back to the pot.

I hesitated.

“There’s a man—Petyr.He’s married, and his wife works there too.”

My mother smiled over her shoulder.“A friendly one, I hope?Someone to show you the ropes?”

“Something like that,” I breathed.

She ladled soup into bowls as she spoke.“Do you think you’ll like the work?”

“It’s repetitive,” I replied.“But not difficult.And they seem...organized.”

“Good.You need structure.”She set the bowls down and fussed with a basket of bread like we were hosting important guests.“Did your hands hold up all right?”

“They’ll be sore tomorrow.”

She finally sat across from me.“Well, as long as your heart is strong.”

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