Page 21 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Another pause.Longer this time.

He looked at me, and there was something new in his eyes.Something testing.Like he was trying to see how far I’d really go.Or how far he could allow himself to follow.

“Alright,” he said finally.“I’ll go.”

I tried not to beam.Failed.

“Great,” I said.“It’s a date.”

I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh.

He just looked at me—really looked at me—and the orchestra in my skull played a single, suspended note.

And then he said, “Alright.”

We finished our tea in silence, the way people do when something important’s just been decided, but neither of them has the guts to say it out loud.

The bell rang.

Dimitri stood, collected his tray, and gave me a small nod.“Back to the looms.”

“Duty calls,” I said, a little too brightly.

I trailed him out of the breakroom, every step feeling like my boots were filled with helium.He said yes.He said yes.My stomach wouldn’t stop doing gymnastics.The music in my head was practically dancing—something orchestral and soaring now, like Shostakovich in love.

The factory floor greeted us with its usual cacophony—grinding metal, clattering wool, the rhythmic thump of machines gnawing through bolts of green.The smell of oil and damp fiber hung thick in the air.

As we stepped into the din, I spotted Vera.She stood by one of the support beams, clipboard in hand, speaking to a knot of workers near Line 3.Probably handing out Party talking points.Something about production goals and the glory of labor.You know—stuff that would really get a man hard.

She glanced over her shoulder, then turned to go.I hesitated.

Dimitri was already heading toward our station.

I hesitated again, then I jogged after her.

“Vera!”

She paused halfway down the corridor between the production floor and the admin offices.When she turned, her brows lifted, amused.

“Already bored with your looms?”

I caught up, panting just a little.“Can I steal a minute?”

She looked around, then nudged the office door open.The room was small, all gray metal filing cabinets and crooked posters of steelworkers and Lenin.No one was inside.But the windows—oh, the windows—lined the front of the room like a fishbowl.Anyone could see us.

Didn’t matter.She stepped in, and I followed.

She shut the door.

Then—without a word—she opened her arms.

I didn’t hesitate.I walked right into them, resting my forehead on her shoulder.She smelled like cigarette smoke and those cheap violet-scented candies she always carried in her purse.Her hands rubbed circles on my back.

“He said yes,” I murmured, half-laughing.

“You look like you’ve won a gold medal.”Her voice was low.

“It feels like that.”

---