Page 38 of Bratva Bride
"The treaty—"
"Fuck the treaty." The profanity made an old man two booths over glare at me. I lowered my voice. "I told you. We wait. However long you need. Forever if that's what it takes. I don’t mind."
She was quiet for a long moment, spinning the empty egg cream glass between her hands. The chocolate foam had settled into something less appetizing, but she took another sip anyway.
"What if forever is actually forever?" she asked quietly. "What if I never—what if I can't—"
"Then we're married roommates who go to aquariums and eat grilled cheese." I tried for lightness but probably missed by miles. "There are worse fates."
"For me, maybe. For you—"
"For me, knowing you're safe and not terrified is worth more than any physical anything." The truth of it surprised me. But sitting here, watching her eat actual food, seeing color in her cheeks, I knew I meant it. "That's all I want, Anya. For you to be okay. Everything else is negotiable."
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she pushed the egg cream glass toward me, offering the last sip. A small gesture. Probably meaningless. But it felt like trust, or at least the beginning of it.
"The jellyfish were beautiful," she said softly.
"We'll go back," I promised. "Whenever you want."
The check came. I paid in cash, overtipped enough to make the waitress double-take. We slid out of the booth and back into the October afternoon, where the world waited with all its complications and treaties and threats.
But for now, Anya had eaten. She'd shared memories. She'd smiled at jellyfish.
It was enough.
Backatthepenthouse,to my surprise, she chose to sit beside me. That simple decision—Anya abandoning the Eames chair for the sofa cushion eighteen inches from where I sat—felt like watching the Berlin Wall come down.
No announcement.
No discussion.
Just her walking past her usual spot with Anna Karenina clutched against her chest and settling into the charcoal fabric close enough that I could smell her shampoo. Something floral. Jasmine, maybe.
The city had turned dark while we were eating dinner—Thai takeout that she'd actually finished, progress measured in empty containers—and now Manhattan lit up beyond the windows like a circuit board. Thousands of lives playing out in those illuminated squares while we sat in careful silence, pretending this proximity was normal.
I had my laptop open to legitimate construction contracts that needed review. The Williamsburg project required adjustments after the latest environmental inspection. The Queens warehouse renovation was behind schedule. Normal business that my brain refused to process because every atom of awareness had shifted to the woman beside me.
She read with total absorption, the way she did everything when she thought I wasn't watching. One foot tucked under her thigh. Lower lip caught between her teeth during tense passages. Occasionally her shoulder would brush mine when she shifted position, and each contact felt like touching a live wire. She'dpulled her hair back in a messy bun that left her neck exposed, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time studying the spot where shoulder met throat, wondering what sounds she'd make if I—
Stop. I forced my attention back to the screen, where the same paragraph about load-bearing walls had been sitting for twenty minutes. She didn't want me. Had made that clear through her silence last night. Was only sitting here because the alternative was hiding in the guest room, and even Anya's anxiety had limits on self-isolation.
She turned a page. The movement brought her incrementally closer, her knee now almost touching my thigh. The contact that wasn't quite contact made my concentration fragment further. I typed random numbers into a spreadsheet just to look busy. Deleted them. Typed more. The worst charade of productivity in history.
Time stretched like pulled taffy. Nine o'clock became nine-thirty became ten, and still we sat there, pretending to focus on anything except each other's proximity. The radiator clicked on, filling the space with warm air and white noise. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. Life happening around us while we existed in this careful bubble where nothing could be acknowledged without breaking something fragile.
Then she closed her book.
The soft thump of pages meeting felt like a gunshot. She set Anna Karenina on the coffee table with deliberate precision, squared the edges with the table's corner, then turned to face me.
"Ivan?"
I closed my laptop. Whatever she wanted to say deserved full attention, not the pretense that quarterly reports mattered more than the way she was looking at me—direct, determined, terrified.
"Yes?"
She pulled her knee up onto the sofa, angling her body toward mine. The movement eliminated eight inches of distance. Ten inches between us now. Close enough that I could see her pulse jumping in her throat.
"Earlier. You said nothing is bad. But—" She bit her lip hard enough that I worried she'd draw blood. "—you also said you were attracted to me. And I didn't respond. And I think you think I'm not—"
