Page 81 of Vital Signs
Misha sat cross-legged on the bed, transformed. Tight jeans, a sheer top, diamond chains. The Parisian model, not the exhausted caretaker, and holy fuck was he hot.
"Hey," I managed.
His head snapped down, eyes finding mine. Something crossed his face too quickly to read. "Thought we weren't talking," he said, but the edge was missing from his voice.
I shrugged. "What's with the..." I gestured vaguely at his entire appearance.
There was a beat of tense silence before he answered. "Sometimes I need to remember who I was. Who I am." He took a slow drag.
"I used to do that with my scrubs after I got fired." The confession surprised even me.
His eyes met mine; recognition passed between us. Two people clinging to the identities that defined them, even after those identities had been stripped away.
"You want to hit this?" He held up the joint, an invitation that seemed like more than just weed.
I climbed in, settling against the opposite wall, aware of every movement. I reached back and pulled the doors closed, the click of the latch giving us privacy from the world outside. The van smelled like expensive cologne, weed, and something uniquely Misha that spiked my pulse. Our knees almost touched in the confined space.
"War says your liver enzymes are improving. Kidneys too," Misha said, passing me the joint.
"Gold star for my internal organs." My fingers brushed his as I took it, electricity sparking where our skin touched.
Silence settled, not exactly comfortable but not hostile either. Just two exhausted people sharing space and smoke, too tired to keep up the anger.
"Why are you out here instead of inside?" I asked finally, needing to break the tension.
Misha shrugged. "The van is safer."
I tried to reconcile this version of him with the man who held my hand through withdrawal and fought his family for me. Both were Misha, but it was like discovering a new facet of someone I thought I knew.
His phone buzzed insistently. Once. Twice. Three times.
He pulled it out, jaw tightening. "Wright's legal team." He showed me the screen—missed calls, unread messages. "They've been calling all day."
"What do they want?"
"Same thing. Return the files, sign statements saying we fabricated everything, make Tyler's death go away." He silenced the phone. "Nikita’s handling it for now. Filing a bunch of injunctions and other paperwork to buy time."
"And if that doesn’t work?"
Misha's eyes hardened. "Then they'll come for us directly. But not today." His expression softened slightly. "Today, I just want to stop thinking about Wright. About Tyler. About all of it."
I understood that need. The desperate desire to turn off the fear, the anger, the guilt.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"The cigarettes don't hit the same," I admitted. "Nothing does."
Misha nodded. "After Roche, food tasted wrong for months. Touch burned. Music sounded flat."
"What changed?"
"Who says it did?"
Our eyes met, and the air between us thickened.
He sighed and looked away. "I guess I did. When something happens to you, something like what happened to me, your life splits into three parts. There's a before and an after. Those parts are easy to define, easy to deal with. It's the in-between that's hard to move on from. It's like…"
"Like standing in a doorway to a room you desperately want to enter. But there's an invisible wall only you can see." I lowered the joint and stared at it. "Sorry. I get philosophical when I'm stoned, I guess."
