Page 17 of Playing with Fire

I let him pull me to my feet, trying not to think about how domestic this felt. How right. He watched with obvious satisfaction as I pulled on his clothes. The weight of his gaze felt like another kind of possession.

The stairs creaked under our feet as we descended into the morning chaos. Voices and cooking sounds drifted up to meet us, everything feeling different in the daylight. Softer but also more real. More permanent.

Annie stood at the counter when we entered, fiddling with the coffee maker. "Morning, boys."

"Our sleeping beauty awakens," Tatty called from her spot by the stove. My mouth watered at the smell of whatever fried pastries she was making.

Nikita maintained his careful stillness behind his section of the paper, the kind of pointed non-reaction that meant he analyzed every detail while appearing completely disinterested. Misha—Michael Laskin now, at least on paper—sat at the far end of the table, picking delicately at a piece of dry toast.

"You need more than toast," Annie said, sliding a plate with two pastries in front of him. When he started to protest, she fixed him with the look that had cowed mercenaries and vigilantes alike. "Doctor's orders. You're still recovering."

"I'm fine," Misha murmured, but his shoulders hunched slightly at the attention. His fingers twisted in the sleeves of his oversized sweater.

"You're both too skinny," Annie declared, already adding food to my plate as well. "Xavier, sit. You're not hunting anyone until you eat."

Xavier's hand settled possessively on my hip as he guided me to a chair. "We're fine, Mom."

"Of course you are," Annie agreed easily, but more food appeared anyway. She sat a glass of strawberry milk by Misha’s plate and pretended not to notice when he started sipping it between small bites of actual breakfast.

The kitchen settled into its usual morning chaos of coffee cups and newspaper sections being passed around, punctuated by conversations in mixed Russian and English. But an undercurrent of awareness ran beneath the normalcy, like people were deliberately dancing around mentioning what had happened last night.

The matter of shopping came up as Annie started gathering empty plates.

"He needs basics at least," she said, eyeing my borrowed clothes. "Toiletries..."

"The clothes are fine," Xavier cut in, his tone holding that possessive edge that made my stomach flip. "He looks good in mine."

"Xavier," Annie sighed. "He can't wear your hoodies forever."

"Why not?" Xavier's hand settled on my thigh under the table, grip tightening slightly. "They suit him."

Tatty paused in her cleaning of the stove, earrings clinking softly as she turned. "Your family, Leo. They should know you're safe, da? I can call them, let them know what happened."

The kitchen went quiet. Even Xavier's hand stilled on my thigh.

"They, um." I stared at my coffee, watching the surface ripple as my hands shook slightly. "We don't really talk anymore. Not since I came out."

"Ah." Tatty's voice held understanding. "Their loss then. They miss seeing what a good man you became."

"More family for us," Yuri said quietly.

Nikita grunted and turned a page in the paper. "Sometimes chosen family is better than blood."

Xavier's fingers interlaced with mine under the table. "He's right. You've got us now."

"Besides," Misha whispered from his corner, fingers twisting in his sleeve, "you make X happy. That makes you family."

"But you still need things of your own," Annie cut in smoothly, recognizing my need for a subject change. "Even if Xavier wants you in his clothes."

"Just enough basics," Xavier conceded, though his thumb stroking my palm suggested he had very specific ideas about what constituted basics. "And Misha can help choose."

“We should pick up Xander,” Misha suggested. “He’ll be upset if you don’t.”

"Perfect." Xavier squeezed my hand one final time before standing. "Let's get ready."

"Yeah." I pushed away from the table, needing to move. "Let me just grab my shoes."

"And a jacket," Annie called after me. "It's cold out."

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