Page 17 of Natasha
The pair ascended the small distance to her door holding hands. After a second of fumbling with her keys, she let them into her apartment. The room was dark, the house cold, their footsteps echoed in the large room, and when she flicked on the lights, she knew Silas saw a sparse living space. It was the picture of Spartan living.
Natasha had never been one for collecting knickknacks or keepsakes. Her mother and grandmother did enough of that for the entire family. She'd grown up surrounded by small trinkets, gifts from fans, walls of framed photos, and mementos from productions long past lining the shelves and covering every available surface. She didn't understand how or why her grandmother and mother held onto the past so tightly.
Living under the weight of past memories, Natasha vowed to have none of it in her own home when she was able to stay in one place long enough to live in anything but the dorm like living arrangements dance companies often arranged for. She'd been delighted to find her little row house behind the studio. It wasn't much, but it was hers.
The living room they now stood in had hardwood floors, stark white walls, on which Natasha had nothing hanging from and a simple oak coffee table in front of the room's only flair: a blue suede Victorian style couch that she'd chosen for its simple elegance. A doorway opened into her tiny kitchen, and the rest of the room was bare, save for a bookshelf against the far wall and the small end table by the door, where she had put her keys. A set of stairs led upstairs toward her bedroom and the bathroom.
Flicking on the light in the living room, Natasha shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot while Silas took in the living room. His eyes swept over the sparsely decorated room quickly before he looked back at her.
"I like it this way," Natasha blurted out before Silas could say anything. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing, so she continued speaking. "My mother and grandmother…" She shook her head and waved a hand at the piles of unnecessary family keepsakes she was seeing in her mind's eye. "…they enjoy things, too much clutter. I hate it." She crossed her arms defensively over her chest and toed her shoes off. "So I like it like this. I-I wanted it simple like this."
"It looks nice," Silas commented softly. "Fits you."
"It does?" Natasha looked at him with surprise. She was used to her mother and grandmother's clucking at her about there not being "enough personality" while they lamented her unwillingness to settle down and make a comfortable home.
"Homes are for relaxing, Natalia," her grandmother was fond of saying. "We had more than this in the USSR."
Natasha would fight back the urge to roll her eyes and quietly say, "I like it simple."
"This isn't simple. It's positively impoverished." Her mother would sniff with a frown after surveying her small collection of books. Never once had either of them looked at Natasha's space and said it fit her. Once again, Silas was making her feel seen, and that made her all the more eager to start this journey with him.
With that in mind, Natasha tossed her head back and forged ahead. "What is this punishment you are so intent on doling out then? Shall we get it over with?"
Silas cracked a smile at her bravado. "So ready to move forward."
Natasha shrugged. "It's late. Seems prudent."
"Seems prudent." Silas echoed as he rolled his neck and stretched his arms over his head. Natasha did her best not to notice how well his shirt clung to his well-muscled chest. It was like the damn thing had been poured right over him. The man was distracting, and she was so focused on her ogling that when Silas spoke, she was confused.
She blinked. "What?"
"I asked, here or in the bedroom?" Silas had his hands in his pocket and was giving her an impassive face. She bit back a sigh when she realized that she wouldn't gain any information from trying to read him.
"Ah, here?" Natasha asked, her eyes questioning him.
Moving toward the couch, Silas sat down. "Come here." He beckoned her forward with a hand, but Natasha remained unmoving where she was still standing by the door.
"What for?"
"Because I asked you to, little girl," Silas replied, voice smooth like velvet.
This time, Natasha did roll her eyes. "Th-that's not e—"
"What? Not enough of a reason for you to do as I ask?" Silas raised an eyebrow in a challenge. His eyes locked on where her arms were crossed over her chest. "What did we just talk about, princess?"
A flush bloomed over Natasha's skin, fast and hot, and she let out a little sigh of frustration. Ducking her head, Natasha forced herself to relax. There was no doubt in her mind that she wanted to explore this, if even for one night, but here in the light of her apartment, she suddenly felt defiant and resistant to giving over her control to Silas.
One look at his stern expression had her reconsidering her bout of rebellion. There was a seriousness there that hadn't been present before. And there was something else that was new—a tenderness, a softness, in those blue eyes that moved Natasha to push down her pride. Slowly, and step by step, she crossed the room until she was standing in front of him.
Silas tilted his head back until he was able to catch Natasha's eye. "Come here," he said but held up a hand stopping her when she went to sit beside him on the couch. "No, not there."
"Then, where?"
"Here." Silas pointed to his lap.
Natasha froze. "What do you mean, there?" She took a hesitant step back with a shake of her head.
"Just that, little girl." Silas caught her wrist before she was able to take another step away.
