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Chapter Four

Petyr

I ’d been elbow-deep in a snarl of tangled threads, swearing under my breath in increasingly creative ways, when I felt a presence behind me. Not the usual presence of a clipboard-wielding supervisor or some half-trained new guy too afraid to ask a question. This one... this one came with music.

Not literal music—nothing you could hum. Just a thrum, a hum, a feeling, like a cello note hanging in the air too long after the bow’s been lifted. It was ridiculous, really. I’d gone years without hearing that kind of phantom sound. Not since school. Not since—

“Petyr,” Vera’s voice called over the racket of the looms.

I turned, wiping my hands on a rag, and there she was. My brilliant, redheaded firecracker of a wife, her face a mixture of pride and amusement. And beside her—

The music swelled.

Tall. Pale. Eyes too big for his face, like he was always halfway through asking a question. And that mouth—stern, cautious, as if smiling might give something away.

“This is Dimitri Morozov,” Vera said, and I swear she was smirking. “He’ll be training with you today.”

Dimitri offered a polite nod.

I grinned, stepping forward, my hand already extended. “Nice to meet you, Dimitri.”

He hesitated, then took my hand. His grip was firm, but not aggressive. And warm. Strangely warm for someone who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Our eyes met—just for a beat too long.

I saw Vera glance at me from the corner of her eye, and I knew that look. I’d seen it across school cafeterias, party meetings, smoky kitchen tables at midnight. She always noticed.

But Vera said nothing. Just gave me a look that said Behave , then disappeared into the noise of the factory like a magician vanishing into a foggy cloud.

Dimitri looked after her. “She’s... enthusiastic.”

I barked out a laugh. “That’s one way to put it. Come on, let’s find you a station before someone throws you to the spindles.”

I led him down the line, pointing out the key parts of the loom: feed rollers, tension knobs, the emergency stop lever. His eyes followed every movement. Quiet. Focused. Like a soldier waiting for orders, or maybe a stray dog trying to figure out if you’re safe.

He was all sharp lines, and unsure silence, and something about that made it worse. Made it impossible not to turn the charm on. Dangerous, sure—but instinctive.

“Most people hate this work,” I said, standing close as I reached around him to adjust the thread spool. “The noise gets to them. Or the rhythm. It messes with your head, if you let it.”

“I like rhythm,” he said without looking at me.

I bit back a smile. “Good. There’s a rhythm to everything here. The machines and the shift changes. Even the lies.”

That earned me a glance. Not much of one, but it was something. A twitch of his eyebrow, maybe even a flicker of amusement.

I leaned in. “You’ll get used to it. Just don’t start thinking too loudly.”

He stared at the loom like it might answer back. “I’m not a talker.”

I smirked. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two.”

The whole time, the music in my head hadn’t stopped. It moved around Dimitri like a shadow—low brass and longing, old piano keys pressed by someone who didn’t know how to play the instrument. I hadn’t heard it in years, not like this.

And now it was here, humming around this blank-faced boy with eyes that reminded me of a melancholy poem.

The lunch bell rang—mercifully, before I said something stupid.

I wiped my hands again, unnecessarily. “You want to eat with me?”

He blinked. The corners of his mouth lifted, barely.

“Yeah,” he said, the word catching like it surprised even him. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

As we made our way down the corridor toward the break room, I tried not to look too pleased. I’m sure I failed.

And that music in my head?

It got louder.

* * *

We were finishing our lunch at a corner table in the drafty break room, sitting on creaky metal chairs with chipped paint. It wasn’t exactly candlelight and violins, but I’d take it.

Dimitri ate like someone who wasn’t sure when his next meal would come—quick, methodical, focused entirely on the food. I’d already finished mine and was now just sipping tea from a cracked mug, watching him.

I shouldn’t have been watching him.

It wasn’t smart, and it definitely wasn’t safe. But logic failed me the moment he walked onto the factory floor with that storm cloud stare and those hands—big, callused, probably strong enough to lift a man clean off his feet and throw him across a room.

I kept wondering what it’d feel like if those hands touched me the way I wanted them to.

I took another sip of tea to chase the thought out, but it didn’t go far.

“You always this quiet?” I asked casually.

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“That’s not a genuine answer. That’s a noise people make when they don’t want to tell you they’re brooding.”

He looked up, and for a heartbeat, I thought I’d made a dent.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” he said, dry as winter air.

“I have to be. Otherwise no one would take me seriously with these cheekbones,” I winked.

Still nothing.

God, he was difficult. Fascinating. Maddening. Every time I thought I had a read on him, he’d tilt his head just a little to the side and blur again. His face looked like it had been carved from a block of ice. But I wanted to see it crack. I wanted to know what his laugh sounded like.

So, I kept trying.

“Did you hear about the time they caught Comrade Pavlov, the factory maintenance man, over there,” I tilted my head toward the back table, “trying to smuggle a goat in under his coat? Said it was his cousin visiting from Belarus.”

Dimitri blinked at me. Slowly.

“Not even a smile?” I leaned in, resting my elbows on the table.

“It’s nonsense,” he said, but I saw it—a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

So I pressed harder.

“He kept calling it Comrade Kozlov, swore it had documents and everything. Even tried to teach it how to salute.”

Dimitri dropped his spoon with a clatter.

And laughed.

Not just a polite chuckle, not one of those exhale-through-the-nose things people do when they want to be polite. No. This was an actual laugh. A real, unguarded sound that cracked through his mask like spring thaw breaking ice.

It hit me right in the chest. That sound. That smile. I saw it in his eyes. For a second, he looked like a completely different man. Younger. Lighter. Like whoever had taught him to be so careful had stepped out of the room.

I didn’t realize I was smiling until the lunch bell rang and he glanced down at his empty food containers.

“Back to the noise,” he said, already retreating into himself.

I stood with him, slower, reluctant. I wanted to sit there a little longer, wanted to keep coaxing that spark out of him. Wanted to see if I could do it again.

We made our way toward the door, falling into step like it was something we’d done a hundred times.

And then—

Vera.

She was walking in as we were walking out, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning everything. When she saw us, she stopped and cocked her head.

“Well?” she said, half-amused. “Is our newest worker still alive?”

“Barely,” I said, grinning. “I made him laugh, though. I think I’m wearing him down.”

She lifted her brows and stepped forward, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

It was meant to be nothing. Friendly. Familiar. The way she always did it when people were watching.

I flinched.

Her eyes flicked up to mine. And then she winked.

I turned toward Dimitri instinctively—just in time to watch his expression shift. The lightness from earlier was gone. The laughter, the flicker of warmth—it had all vanished.

He said nothing, and neither did I.

We walked out together, but it didn’t feel like before.

I couldn’t help but wonder—had he seen more than I meant to show? And if so... what exactly had he seen?

* * *

By the time we pushed open the door to our apartment that night, the hallway lights were flickering again.

Third time this week. Vera muttered something about the electrician being a ghost story and kicked off her boots with practiced frustration.

I took mine off too, and we left them in the hallway.

Inside, the smell of strong cologne hit us at once. Nina used an awful lot of it, and Vera suspected it was because she never bathed.

Pavel and Nina were halfway to the door, arguing in hushed tones over who’d left the iron plugged in. Nina spotted us and straightened up, flashing a bright smile like nothing had happened.

“Ah, the blanket barons return,” she teased, tossing her scarf over her shoulder.

Pavel gave us a nod, already pulling on his gloves. “We left you a slice of pie. Don’t say we never do anything nice.”

“I’ll sing your praises from the rooftops,” Vera said dryly, stepping aside so they could pass.

“Not too loudly,” Nina added, winking. “We don’t need the neighbors asking for some.”

The four of us shared a chuckle—easy, habitual, surface-deep. We weren’t enemies, but we hadn’t chosen to live with them either. When they were gone, the air shifted slightly. Quieter. Looser. I could breathe differently.

Vera waited for their footsteps to fade down the stairwell, then padded toward the kitchen.

“I’m making tea,” I said, already halfway there.

“I’m joining you.”

She leaned against the counter while I filled the kettle, arms folded, watching me like she was deciding whether to say something.

She didn’t wait long.

“So,” she said, voice casual, “what do you think of Dimitri Morozov?”

I turned, surprised. “You remember his name?”

“I remember most of the boys you drool over. It helps me keep track.”

I snorted, pouring water into the kettle and lighting the stove. “Drool is an overstatement.”

“Sure. And I only married you so you could love all the boys without anyone getting suspicious.”

I grinned. “And so you could keep seeing your adorable Mira.”

She leaned her hip against the counter. “I’m serious, though. He seems... I don’t know. Familiar.”

“Familiar?”

“Like us,” she said pointedly, then softened it with a shrug. “I think he’s one of us.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You picked that up during the Party orientation?”

“Please. I’ve known you since you were a boy, and I can tell when, you know, somebody is like us.” She smirked. “And you’re not exactly subtle when you like someone, Petyr.”

I busied myself grabbing mugs, avoiding her eyes.

“Well?” she prompted.

“He’s...” I shook my head, searching for the right word. “He’s quiet. Watchful. I don’t know what he’s thinking most of the time.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I poured the tea when the kettle shrieked, letting the steam rise between us. “Dimitri’s…” I stopped myself. “I don’t know what I think.”

She didn’t push, just took her mug and followed me into the bedroom.

We shut the door behind us. That was the deal—privacy in a two-bedroom shared apartment meant doors stayed closed, and secrets stayed inside them.

We sat on the bed, Vera cross-legged, me leaning against the wall. She took a sip and gave me that look again. Patient. Knowing. A look only someone who’s seen you at your worst can manage without judgment.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” I said finally.

Vera didn’t react. Just waited.

“It’s ridiculous. We just met. He barely talks. He eats like the cafeteria might disappear if he blinks.”

“But?”

“But I can’t remember the last time someone got under my skin like this.”

She tilted her head. “Since Mikhail?”

My heart twisted at the name. I hadn’t spoken it out aloud in years.

“I was what—thirteen?” I laughed softly. “Back then, I didn’t even know what I was feeling. Just that every time he looked at me, it was like...”

“Like music?” she guessed.

I met her eyes, startled.

“How did you—”

She smiled gently. “You told me about it once, how you knew Mikhail was your first love. You said being around him was like living inside a cello.”

I exhaled through my nose. “It’s happening again.”

Vera blinked.

“Whenever Dimitri’s near me... there’s music. Not loud. Not like an actual song. Just... something. Low and constant. Like I’m sitting near an orchestra warming up.” I gave a helpless laugh. “I just met him. What the hell is that about?”

She set her mug down and reached for my hand, squeezing it. “That, my dear husband, is romance.”

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t have one.

We sat in silence for a few beats, just the hum of the radiator filling the space.

Then she let go of my hand and leaned back, more serious now.

“Petyr,” she breathed. “Don’t mess this up.”

My eyes met hers.

“I mean it. We’ve got a good thing. A roof over our heads. Jobs. People who leave us alone. We’re careful. Remember, Dimitri works with us, and others might notice if…”

“You don’t have to spell it out for me,” I interrupted.

She reached out and touched my cheek. “I want you to be happy. You know that. But not if it gets you sent to a labor camp. Or worse.”