Page 38

Crossing Oceans

Erin

T he line from Eugene Onegin makes me pause, finger hovering above the weathered page.

Love obeys all ages.

I’ve read it a dozen times on this JFK runway, trying to absorb the poetry while my mind bounces between nervousness about Dubrovnik and the empty ache already forming at leaving Dmitri behind.

Empty. Just like the two first-class seats across the aisle from mine.

“Those passengers are cutting it close,” the flight attendant murmurs as she refills my sparkling water. “We’re pushing back in twenty.”

I smile politely, tucking a bookmark into the novel. Pushkin understands timing and missed opportunities better than most. The what-ifs and almost-nevers that haunt relationships. The pale moments becoming glowing ones.

Like Dmitri dragging me to bed after the Stanley Cup win with no explanation or justification. Like waking up next to him that first morning, the sun painting his shoulders gold. Like his scorching hands when he blindfolded me and led me into that apartment— our apartment—the key, cold and heavy in my palm.

My phone buzzes.

[Dmitri]: Have a safe flight, solnyshko. I love you.

My chest tightens. Just this morning, he pressed me against his Range Rover in the departures lane, lips possessive and unhurried despite the honking taxis.

“I’ll miss this,” he’d murmured against my mouth. “The way you taste in the morning.”

I’d smacked his chest, laughing through the lump in my throat. “It’s just three weeks.”

“Too long,” he’d growled, fingers digging into my hips like he could keep me anchored there forever.

The last week has been pure chaos—shuttling between his Tarrytown mansion and my tiny Village apartment, sleeping tangled in his sheets or crammed into my IKEA bed frame that groaned alarmingly under his weight. Waking up each morning to his sleepy Russian murmurs, his hands already searching for me before his eyes even opened.

Telling Ris had been both easier and harder than I expected.

We’d sat her down in the kitchen after her skating lesson, my stomach in knots, hands fidgeting with my coffee mug.

“Amnushka,” Dmitri had started, his voice gentle but serious. “Erin and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Ris had looked between us, those impossibly blue eyes sparkling with expectation. “Are you getting married?”

I’d choked on my coffee.

“Not yet,” Dmitri had replied with maddening calm. “But Erin is going to be living with us now. When she’s not on tour.”

I’d held my breath, waiting for confusion. Questions. Maybe even tears.

Instead, she’d launched herself from her chair with a squeal that probably registered on seismic monitors in New Jersey.

“I KNEW IT!” she’d shouted, small arms wrapping around my neck so tight I nearly toppled backward. “Mr. Waddles knew too! We’ve been waiting FOREVER!”

Dmitri had just smirked, the smug jerk, like he’d orchestrated the whole thing.

Galina had been worse.

“Finally,” she’d declared when we told her, tapping her temple like she’d seen it all along. “I thought I would need to lock you two in the wine cellar.”

Then she’d pressed a folder of handwritten recipe cards into my hands, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “For when he is hungry after practice. Or after...other exertions.”

My face had caught fire. Dmitri had just laughed.

“Final boarding call for passengers on Flight 1427 to Dubrovnik.”

I blink, shaking off the memory as another announcement crackles overhead. Those empty seats are still empty. Probably some wealthy couple running fashionably late.

I turn back to Pushkin, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of his words, when a commotion in the aisle makes me freeze.

A familiar voice—small, high-pitched, and very excited.

“Erin! Erin! We made it!”

My head snaps up, heart lodging somewhere in my throat.

Ris barrels down the aisle, Mr. Waddles clutched in one hand, her blonde curls bouncing wildly beneath a sun hat covered in—are those tiny cellos?

And behind her?—

“Surprise, solnyshko .”

Dmitri. My Dmitri. Ducking to avoid the overhead bins, a weekend bag slung over one massive shoulder, looking so unfairly gorgeous in dark jeans and a T-shirt that my brain short-circuits.

“What the?—”

“SURPRISE!” Ris leaps at me, landing square in my lap with enough force to knock Pushkin to the floor. “We’re going to CRO-AY-SHA with you!”

I catch her automatically, still staring at Dmitri like he’s a mirage. “You— But— What?—”

“Very articulate.” He smirks as he stows their bags in the overhead compartment, biceps flexing beneath the soft fabric. “We’re coming with you.”

Luka and Marko, seated directly behind me, whoop in unison.

“You cut it so damn close,” Luka exclaims, fist-bumping Dmitri as he slides into the seat across the aisle. “I thought maybe a rogue Zamboni got you in the terminal.”

“Or he got stuck in traffic recreating Erin’s departure kiss,” Marko adds, waggling his brows.

Dmitri grunts, unimpressed, and fastens his seatbelt. “Mind your business, dragi .”

Marko just grins. “Oh, we are minding it. We’re fully invested at this point.”

My head is spinning, a grin splitting my face. “You’re coming?”

Dmitri turns to me, his eyes softer now, his fingers brushing mine on the armrest. “Three weeks is too long, solnyshko .”

And just like that, every fear, every what-if, every pale moment that could have become a regret disappears.

I lean in, pressing my forehead to his, breathing him in.

“You’re amazing,” I whisper.

His lips curl at the corners. “You are.”

The plane rumbles as it taxis down the runway, the vibrations rolling through the cabin.

Love obeys all ages.

Pushkin’s words stare up at me from the page, but my brain is short-circuiting. Because Dmitri Sokolov—the man who hates surprises, whose entire life runs on discipline and schedules—is sitting across the aisle, looking pleased. And beside him, his six-year-old daughter is positively vibrating with excitement.

“Papa got us on the same airplane!” Ris whispers loudly, as if imparting a state secret. “We’re going to see you play music, and eat fish, and swim in the Adri... Adri…”

“Adriatic,” Dmitri supplies smoothly, his hand reaching over the aisle to hold mine.

I’m still gaping. “But your training, Fire Island…”

“Handled.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to that rough, lazy drawl that does dangerous things to my self-control. “Marko arranged everything.”

I blink. “Marko?”

Luka, sitting directly behind me, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “You wound me, draga .” He leans between the seats, his signature smirk firmly in place. “How could you doubt us?”

Marko nudges him aside, grinning as he fist bumps Dmitri. “We were starting to think he wouldn’t make it. Cutting it a little close, medo .”

“Blame the JFK construction,” Dmitri grunts, but his smirk lingers.

Luka clutches his chest dramatically. “For a second, we thought you had been compromised. Kidnapped, perhaps. Or worse—” His eyes glint with mischief. “Detained by a particularly needy solnyshko at the departure terminal.”

Marko snickers.

Dmitri, utterly unbothered, just raises a brow. “Jealous?”

Luka sighs. “A little. The passion. The drama. The public indecency.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “I hate all of you.”

“Don’t lie, draga .” Luka pats my shoulder. “You love us. Especially this one.” He gestures lazily at Dmitri. “It is obscene how much you love this one.”

Dmitri hums approvingly, clearly enjoying their observations.

“Miss,” the flight attendant interrupts, appearing at my side, “your daughter needs to be in her own seat for takeoff.”

“Oh, she’s not my—” I start, but Ris is already climbing over the armrest to settle beside Dmitri.

“Can I have airplane juice?” she asks, buckling herself in with practiced ease. “And cookies? Papa says airplanes have special cookies.”

“Apple juice and Biscoff, coming right up,” the flight attendant says warmly before disappearing down the aisle.

While she deals with Ris’s snack requests, I lean toward Dmitri, voice low. “How long have you been planning this?”

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—something softer, quieter. “Not long.”

My heart does something ridiculous in my chest. “It was only a couple of weeks.”

“Too long to wait.” His fingers brush mine on the armrest, warm and steady. “Three weeks without this? Without waking up to you stealing my covers?”

“I do not steal covers!”

His brow lifts. “Liar.”

The plane accelerates, pressing us back into our seats. Ris squeals with delight, clutching Mr. Waddles in a death grip.

“Papa, we’re flying !” she yells, loud enough for the entire cabin to hear. “Look, Erin! The ground is going backward!”

I shake my head, still trying to process. “What about Galina? Your training?”

“Galina is on board,” Dmitri says, utterly deadpan. “Said I needed to take every opportunity I can get and travel the world. Show Ris the Croatian beach.”

Luka lets out an approving tsk . “She’s not wrong.”

“Marko has weights in his house,” Dmitri continues, his voice dipping lower. “And we have…arrangements.”

I narrow my eyes. “Arrangements?”

Marko, completely unbothered, sips his drink. “Private beach access.”

“Very private,” Luka adds.

Heat creeps up my neck. Dmitri just smirks.

The seatbelt sign dings off. Instantly, Ris unbuckles and clambers across the aisle, squeezing into my seat and curling against my side.

“Did we surprise you good?” she asks, her voice sleepier now.

“The best surprise,” I assure her, smoothing her curls.

A flight attendant appears with beverages—apple juice for Ris, sparkling water for me, and something clear and suspiciously strong for Dmitri.

“Celebrating?” I ask, arching a brow at his drink.

His eyes hold mine, steady and knowing. “You have no idea.”

Ris chatters happily between us, laying out her Dubrovnik itinerary. Swimming. Castles. Gelato. At one point, she tries to convince Luka to host a tea party with her stuffed animals, and to my absolute delight, Luka accepts with full theatricality.

But my attention keeps drifting back to Dmitri.

To the way his gaze lingers on me. To the way he listens to Ris with an almost reverent softness. To the quiet certainty in his expression, like this, this , is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“So, Marko really arranged everything?” I ask when Ris finally pauses for breath.

Dmitri nods. “We’re staying with them. Walking distance to most festival venues.” His lips curve knowingly. “And to that private beach I mentioned.”

My cheeks burn. “You’ve really thought of everything.”

“I’m very thorough,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something dark and devastating. “As you well know.”

“Behave,” I warn, glancing at Ris, who is now absorbed in her iPad. “Your daughter’s right here.”

“Later, then.” It’s a promise that sends my pulse into overdrive.

I lean back, letting my head rest against the seat, the weight of Ris against my side, the warmth of Dmitri’s gaze.

Two months ago, I believed love was a choice—career or heart, music or family. But here we are, 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, proving that belief wrong with every passing mile.

I glance down at Ris, now dozing against me, then back at Dmitri, who hasn’t looked away.

“I love you,” I whisper, the words still new enough to make my heart stutter.

His smile—soft, unguarded, all mine—is the only answer I need.

* * *

Dmitri

Dubrovnik in July is a fucking postcard come to life.

Medieval walls circle a labyrinth of limestone streets and red-tiled roofs. The Adriatic stretches impossibly blue, meeting a sky so clear it hurts to look at. Everywhere, the scent of salt and sunscreen mingles with lavender and fresh fish, the kind of sensory bombardment that makes even a cynic like me understand why people call this place paradise.

But the real magic? Watching Erin claim this city as her stage.

She’s radiant under the Croatian sun, her skin taking on a golden glow, her hair catching fire in the evening light as she stands on ancient stone platforms, bow moving with such fluid precision it seems to extend from her body. The audience—hundreds of them, packed into a centuries-old courtyard—sit in perfect stillness, utterly captivated.

Ris leans against my side, surprisingly patient for a six-year-old who’s been sitting relatively still for nearly an hour.

“She’s the best one,” she whispers loudly as Erin finishes a particularly complex passage, the sound echoing off stone walls. “Even better than Luka.”

I bite back a laugh. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

But I agree. Erin doesn’t just play—she becomes the music. Her entire body an instrument, her soul poured through her fingers into each note. Tonight it’s Bach, tomorrow Vivaldi, the night after a modern piece composed specifically for the festival. And everywhere she goes, she leaves a trail of awed whispers in her wake.

The piece ends with a flourish, and the crowd erupts. Ris jumps to her feet, clapping wildly.

“THAT’S MY ERIN!” she shouts, loud enough to make nearby audience members turn with indulgent smiles.

My chest tightens at the simple declaration.

My Erin.

Ours.

Afterward, we wind our way through the narrow cobblestone streets toward Marko’s house, the air still warm, the sky velvet-dark. Ris skips ahead, energetic despite the late hour, her laughter echoing off the stone walls.

“Gelato?” she asks, pointing with theatrical hope at a tiny shop still glowing like a promise.

“One scoop,” I say, already resigned to losing this negotiation. “Since you sat so nicely during the concert.”

“Three,” she counters, all shameless grins and gleaming eyes. “I was extra good.”

“Two,” Erin says, taking her hand. “With sprinkles.”

“Deal!” Ris crows, darting inside like she’s just sealed a stock trade.

The past ten days have settled into an easy rhythm I didn’t expect. Erin spends her mornings in rehearsals, her music spilling through ancient stone walls while I sneak in my summer workouts—light, off-season training to keep me sharp without burning out. Ris tags along sometimes, timing my sprints or handing me water like a pint-sized coach. In the afternoons, she heads to the children’s cultural program, giving me a few quiet hours to explore or check in with the team. Evenings are Erin’s again, her performances magnetic, holding court on stages that have seen centuries of music and magic.

And the nights—those belong to us. Once Ris is asleep and the crowds are gone, we carve out a world that’s just ours. Sometimes slow and reverent, sometimes rough with want. Always with that quiet thrum of wonder, like we’re still surprised by how lucky we are.

“She was phenomenal tonight,” Marko says, appearing at my side with two cones in hand, both dripping just slightly under the streetlamp’s glow. One of them is deep and glossy, almost black.

“We’re already talking about next year,” he adds, handing me the other—orange, my favorite. “A featured soloist spot.”

Pride rises sharp in my chest. “She’s earned it.”

He nods. “Luka says the video from last night is blowing up on YouTube. People are watching.”

I glance through the glass to where Erin is crouched beside Ris, still in that ruinous black dress, her hair pinned up from the performance.

“And how’s the private beach?” Marko asks, too casual to be anything but calculated.

I clear my throat. “Very...private.”

He laughs. “That good, huh?”

“Better,” I admit, watching as Erin wipes gelato from Ris’s chin. The simple, domestic gesture hits me square in the chest—this beautiful, talented woman who could have anyone, chooses us. Chooses our complicated, messy, wonderful life.

Later, with Ris finally asleep and the sounds of the city fading into night, Erin sits on the terrace, legs tucked beneath her, still flushed from her triumph.

“You were watching me tonight,” she says without turning, a smile in her voice. “I could feel it.”

“I’m always watching you,” I confirm, sliding behind her on the lounger. My arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. “Best view in Dubrovnik.”

She laughs, the sound vibrating against me. “Cheesy.”

“Accurate.” I press a kiss to her shoulder, tasting salt and sunshine. “You were magnificent up there.”

She turns in my arms, eyes bright in the dim light. “Marko asked me about next year.”

“I heard.” My fingers trace idle patterns on her arm. “What did you say?”

“That I’d think about it.” She studies my face. “Would that be okay? Coming back? Maybe for longer?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with all the complications we’ve yet to navigate. My season. Her tour. The logistics of a life split between continents.

“Okay?” I echo, pulling her closer. “ Solnyshko , it’s more than okay. It’s what this was always about. You, doing what you love. Us, finding a way to make it work.”

Her shoulders relax, tension draining away. “Even if it means more time apart?”

“Even then.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because we’ll always come back to each other.”

She nods, leaning into my touch. “I like the sound of that.”

THE END