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Chapter Twenty

Dimitri

T he sky was a colorless grey again, like someone had wrung out the last drops of paint from the world and left only the cold behind.

Papa and I hadn’t spoken all morning—just the clatter of utensils over breakfast and the occasional cough.

Now the silence hung between my father and me like the scent of stale tobacco in his car: ever-present, and impossible to ignore.

He gripped the wheel with those blunt, square fingers of his, the ones that had once stitched up the hull of a fishing boat with surgical precision. Hands of a man who’d built everything he had, except, perhaps, a connection with me.

I slumped deeper into the passenger seat, watching Leningrad roll by in smudged pastels and soot. My shoulders ached from a weekend spent brooding over what I couldn’t change.

“You’ve been quiet,” my father said, eyes still on the road. “All weekend.”

I exhaled through my nose, slow and deliberate. “It’s nothing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The change of season, perhaps?”

“Maybe.”

He grunted. “Most people are happy when spring comes.”

I didn’t reply. What was there to say? Spring meant new life, fresh starts. But for some of us, it only made what we couldn’t have feel sharper, more alive. A mocking promise of warmth I couldn’t reach.

We pulled up to the factory gates. The familiar stink of oil and wet wool drifted through the open window even before I stepped out.

I opened the door but didn’t say goodbye.

Papa didn’t expect me to. The engine coughed once as he drove off, leaving me in the usual crush of workers lined up to get inside.

Faces blurry with fatigue surrounded me. Everyone dressed the same, moved the same. A herd with nowhere better to be. I scanned the line, my heart stuttering, hoping, stupidly, for just a glimpse of—

No sign of Petyr.

My throat tightened. I stared ahead, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

I knew it wasn’t his fault. On Saturday, when he disappeared so suddenly with Vera’s parents, it wasn’t because he wanted to leave me standing on the street like a forgotten thought.

His in-laws had shown up unannounced. Vera’s parents.

Big shots in the Party, apparently. People who could make men like me disappear with a signature.

Still, the knowledge didn’t make the ache any easier to swallow. We barely got minutes together these days. A kiss here. A whispered promise there. Once, behind the warehouse, he grabbed my wrist, yanked me into shadow, and kissed me like the world was ending. Maybe it was. We never said it aloud.

Even when we managed something more than a kiss—those desperate, ragged quickies where our hands shook and our breath turned to fog—it always felt like the world would punish us for even that.

Even so, I would’ve given everything I had for one more look into his eyes. I could live on just that. I have lived on just that.

Someone behind me muttered, “You gonna move or stand there all day?”

I blinked. The line had disappeared. The foreman was already barking orders at the next group inside. I nodded once, mostly to myself, and trudged forward into the belly of the beast.

The factory greeted me like always—with noise. Deafening, mechanical, alive in the worst way. The looms sang their endless dirge. Threads of green stretched across the room like a bad dream we kept weaving because we didn’t know how to wake up.

I peeled off my coat, shoved it into the locker, then slid my hat onto the hook. My fingers lingered on the wool for a moment longer than they needed to. Hesitating. Bracing.

When I stepped out onto the floor, my eyes found him instantly.

Petyr.

He stood with Vera—always Vera—and a few other workers near the dye tanks. He was laughing at something. Light bent around him, I swear it did. He leaned in a little too close to Vera, probably playing the part of doting husband for whoever might be watching.

But when his gaze met mine, something in him lit up.

A smile exploded across his face, blinding and sudden, like the sun had cracked open inside him. He broke away mid-sentence and crossed the floor with urgency, slipping between machines like he had somewhere important to be—and he did. He had me.

“Dimitri,” he breathed when he reached me, voice low, charged. His eyes devoured me like he hadn’t seen me in weeks. “I have the most enormous surprise for you.”

My pulse skipped.

A surprise?

In this life?

I stared at him, trying not to look too eager, trying not to hope too hard.

But then his fingers brushed mine for half a second—just enough to ignite every nerve in my hand—and the corners of my mouth twitched upward before I could stop them.

God help me, but I’d follow that smile anywhere.

A deep baritone rang out over the thrum of machinery. “All workers, please gather near the front. We have a brief announcement.”

Groans echoed from every corner of the floor, the collective language of people allergic to change in routine.

But we moved anyway, shuffling toward the loading area where the battered red podium stood like some forgotten relic of the Revolution.

I glanced at Petyr; his grin widened, as if he had orchestrated the whole thing for my benefit.

My stomach flipped. Not from nerves—more like suspicion. I didn’t trust surprises. Not in this place. Not in this life.

The crowd settled into a loose semicircle. Arms crossed, shoulders slouched. The smell of sweat and old wool was stronger here, somehow.

Then Comrade Korovin stepped forward. He looked like he’d been carved from stone and soaked in vodka. His uniform was crisp, hat tilted just so, chest puffed out like he thought he was the Soviet Union. His mustache practically twitched with pride.

“Comrades,” he began, voice booming, “I am proud to report that our factory has exceeded its monthly output quota by nearly fifteen percent.”

A smattering of polite claps. Someone near me coughed theatrically.

Korovin didn’t care. He was on a roll.

“This is a testament to your discipline, your strength, and your unyielding belief in our shared future. The Ministry has taken notice.”

Great. So maybe they’d double our quota next month and reward us with an extra bowl of borscht.

Korovin continued, eyes gleaming with forced warmth. “As such, we are pleased to offer a token of gratitude. I will now invite Comrade Vera Kuznetsova to share the details.”

Petyr stiffened beside me.

Vera stepped forward, her smile weaponized and professional. Her hair was pinned back so tightly it looked painful. The sunlight from the tall windows caught on her earrings—small red stars that glittered.

“Good morning, comrades,” she said, her voice high and clear. “In honor of our collective success, and with gratitude for your tireless efforts, each of you will receive a weekend retreat at the factory dacha during the spring and summer.”

That got their attention.

Actual murmurs of surprise rippled through the crowd. A break from the noise and soot. A few days to breathe pine-scented air and not dream of looms.

Petyr leaned close, lips brushing my ear. “You’re going to love this,” he whispered, almost giddy.

I gave him a wary side-eye. “What are you up to?”

Vera raised her hand for silence. “We will assign weekends randomly, to ensure fairness. Today, we will select the first name. Yelena, the hat, please?”

A squat woman with heavy ankles and a no-nonsense expression walked forward, carrying an enormous fur hat filled with folded paper slips. She looked like she’d just marched straight out of a breadline and into our meeting.

“Spasibo, Yelena,” Vera said, taking the hat with a flourish.

She shut her eyes theatrically, muttering a little “hmm” as she rummaged around inside. Her hand emerged with a slip of paper. She unfolded it with delicate precision, the way you’d open a love letter—or a summons.

She smiled brightly.

“Comrade Dimitri Morozov.”

My name echoed in my head like a shot fired in an empty room. Applause broke out around me, muted but enthusiastic. A few coworkers patted my back. One guy even gave me a playful shove, nearly knocking me off balance.

Vera added, “And in recognition of his exemplary attendance record, he will be granted Friday off to begin his dacha weekend early. Three full days of well-earned rest.”

I stared at her like she’d just announced I’d won a private tour of the Kremlin with Gorbachev himself.

“Me?” I muttered.

Petyr turned, smiling so wide I thought his face might split in two.

“I told you you’d love this surprise,” he murmured against my ear. His voice dropped to something lower, more dangerous. “We’ll be alone. All weekend. Just you and me.”

My heart stopped.

The factory floor melted away—the noise, the people, even the stink of machine grease. All I could hear was Petyr’s breath against my neck, and the blood rushing in my ears like waves crashing on distant shores.

Just him and me.

For three whole days.

* * *

Petyr was singing.

Actually singing—half under his breath, sure, but not enough to hide the fact that he was cheerful. I stared at him across the loom like he’d grown wings and was about to fly straight out the cracked skylight above us.

It wasn’t an actual song. Just a few low, tuneless phrases that circled the same few notes. But I recognized the melody, warped though it was. Shostakovich. He always turned to Shostakovich when he was feeling too much. And today, clearly, he was feeling everything.

I couldn’t stop smiling. No matter how many times I told my face to behave. It was like someone had cut the ropes around my chest and I could finally take a full breath.

Alone.

No Vera, and no family obligations. No alleyways or locked storerooms or watching our backs in public. Just us.

The lunch whistle blew, and the looms groaned to a stop. The air suddenly filled with voices, movement, and the usual clatter of workers heading to the break room.

I wiped my hands, about to follow, when Petyr grabbed my elbow.

“Follow me,” he whispered.

I blinked. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer. Just grinned like he was about to do something wildly illegal and delightful. I followed, of course. I always followed.

He led me past the lockers, up the back stairwell, one I’d never actually used before, and through a narrow hallway that smelled like mold and mothballs.

The upstairs was clearly abandoned. Stacks of old green blankets sagged against the walls, mottled with mildew and mouse droppings.

Cracked boxes labeled in faded ink leaned against doorways.

I heard the soft patter of tiny feet and saw a mouse dart across the peeling linoleum.

“Petyr,” I said, voice low. “Seriously. Where are we going?”

“I want to be alone with you,” he whispered without looking back. “Now.”

My heart stumbled.

He opened the door to an old office, shoved aside a broken chair with his foot, and pulled me in after him. The door clicked shut behind us.

The moment it did, he turned and kissed me.

Hard.

No hesitation. No caution. Just heat and the hunger I’d felt all weekend but couldn’t name. His fingers slid behind my neck, pulling me in tighter, until there was nothing in the world but the sound of our breath and the press of his mouth against mine.

When he finally broke away, we were both panting.

“I’m sorry,” he said, resting his forehead against mine. “About Saturday. About leaving like that. I didn’t have a choice.”

I didn’t respond right away. My pulse was still pounding. I glanced down at his chest instead, then muttered, “Mira was very upset.”

Petyr shut his eyes. His entire face changed, like something inside him folded inward.

“I know,” he breathed. “But don’t worry about Mira. Or Vera. Or anything. Just… think about this weekend.”

He opened his eyes. They were fierce now, blazing. “Think about us.”

I kissed him this time. Slower. Deeper. Letting myself sink into the feeling of him, warm and alive and close. The scent of wool and machine oil clung to his shirt, but beneath it was something distinctly Petyr—a faint smell of pine soap and something sweeter, something I could never quite name.

His hands slid to my waist, and he pressed me gently against the door, his lips against mine.

When we finally parted, I didn’t want to leave.

“Do you know how many wicked things I’m going to do to you this weekend?” Petyr whispered.