Page 29 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

There were maybe twenty, thirty men.Some milling about in twos and threes, talking in low voices.Others leaned against the walls like they were part of the furniture.At the far end of the room was a bar—more of a table with bottles on it, but it did the job.A mirror hung crookedly behind it, and a fan turned lazily above, doing absolutely nothing.

“I’ll get the first round,” Dimitri said suddenly.

I blinked at him.“What?”

“You paid to get us in.”His jaw was set like he was volunteering for the front line.“Let me get the drinks.”

I didn’t argue.

We approached the bar, and the bartender, a man who looked like he’d lived through several regimes and hated all of them, eyed us with suspicion before grunting.Dimitri ordered vodka.Two shots.The genuine kind, not the potato-flavored turpentine they served in worker bars.

The bartender slammed the glasses down and swept the money away before we could blink.

We took our drinks and started walking.I didn’t lead.I let Dimitri take it in, his eyes darting to the shadows, the alcoves, the archways that once led to changing rooms and now led to secrets.

That was when he stopped.

He froze mid-step.Glass still in hand.

I turned to follow his gaze.

In the far corner, half-hidden behind a concrete column and a threadbare curtain, two men stood very close.One pressed the other against the wall, his hand buried in the other’s hair.Their mouths moved together, slow and hungry, like they had all the time in the world.

Dimitri stared.He didn’t blink.His jaw slackened just slightly.

I said nothing.

The noise of the room fell away.It always did in moments like this, when the rest of the world didn’t matter.Only the breath between us.The beat of a heart.The truth rising up from somewhere too deep to deny.

I took a breath.Held it.

Then, with all the calm I didn’t feel, I reached for his hand.

He didn’t look at me.Not yet.He stared at my hand like it was something that might explode.

Then Dimitri looked up.

His eyes—God, those eyes—widened, not in fear, but in recognition.Something clicked.Some ancient lock deep in his chest finally gave way.

And then, slowly, he slid his hand into mine.

It was warm.Steady.

I wanted to shout out loud and drag him out onto the cracked tile floor and dance until our boots fell apart.I wanted to kiss him right there, just to prove I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.But I didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, I just squeezed his hand.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I hadn’t been wrong.

I didn’t say a word as I led him away from the soft murmur of voices and the flickering amber bulbs.Just tightened my grip on his hand and walked, careful not to rush, careful not to let go.

There was a quiet alcove off to the side, half-shielded by an old shower curtain still hanging from a bent rod.The tiles back here were chipped worse than the rest, the air damp with ghostly memories of water and steam.It was far enough from the others to feel hidden, but not so far as to feel dangerous.

We stopped.

I turned to face him, and he looked at me like I had just pulled him underwater.His eyes searched mine, restless, unsure whether to fight or surrender.

We still held our drinks.

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