Page 14

It felt as though the floor beneath me had gripped my feet, refusing to let go. Summoning the strength to turn around was impossible. Each breath was a struggle, as if I’d forgotten how to exist.

Finally, I spun on my heels to look at him.

Really look at him, maybe in a way I hadn’t before.

Not just what he was wearing, but the way his eyes scanned me up and down, likely searching for signs of injury.

I noticed the faint downturn of his lips, as if he was holding back a frown.

His hands remained at his sides, clenched into fists, hesitating to reach out, almost as if they were restrained by the fabric of his dark jeans.

The intensity in his gaze was almost too much. His eyes darkened with concern. My throat tightened, and I struggled to find my voice, the words lodged somewhere deep inside.

We stood there, locked in a silent standoff, the air between us electric. Neither of us moved, neither of us spoke, both caught in the gravity of what lay unspoken. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving the two of us suspended in this moment.

“You’re here,” I finally was able to say somewhat softly.

“I’m always here.”

His eyes looked into mine, and I wanted to reach out to him. I wanted to run my hands along his sharp jawline, pull him in, and tell him to help me. Save me from the life I was somehow living, but no one could save me except myself.

“A-Are you not going anywhere for the week?” I asked.

He shook his head and then leaned against the hallway wall.

“No.”

His words were simple, yet the meaning was so much deeper. No, he wasn’t going anywhere. No, he was going to stay here. No, he was here with me.

“No,” I repeated, closing my eyes, knowing the one looming test inside the bathroom cabinet waited for me.

“Do you want to go skating?” I blurted out and opened my eyes.

He chuckled, and finally, the tension seemed to alleviate. It felt like our more carefree normal selves when we were laughing, watching a movie.

“I would love to.”

“I have a few errands in the morning, so I’ll meet you at the rink around noon?”

“Yeah, but let’s go to the practice rink. It’ll be right before public skate, but it’ll be fresh ice.”

I nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.” There was another pause between us. “Thank you.”

My words carried a meaning that was so much deeper. Thank you for giving me this space.

I was a walking contradiction. Don’t ask me how I am, but please know when to step in to help. Please spend time with me, but only when I can. Don’t touch me, but also please reach out and let me know what it feels like to have your arms hold me.

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the self-deprecating thoughts and focus on the apartment.

I had spent so many evenings here, though, it felt different in the light.

Truthfully, I don’t think I’d actually ever seen it with natural light.

I walked down the hallway and was surprised by how warm it was in here.

The furniture was familiar, and it was still cozy, but there was such an openness to it.

“I’ve never been here during the day,” I noted. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sorry, I hate to break up your admiration at my windows, but why is there a sewing machine in my hallway?” he asked, and I spun around so fast before I erupted into laughter.

“I almost forgot.” I ran to grab the machine at the front door again before I brought it back down the hallway.

We both reached for the machine, our hands brushing, and a spark jolted through me. For a second, our fingers lingered, and time seemed to freeze before reality snapped us back. It was a stark contrast—being so touched out by my husband’s harshness, yet craving Alex’s warmth.

I grabbed the machine and stuck it on the counter in the kitchen before stepping back to admire it. “I bought a sewing machine.”

He came up next to me, crossing his hands over his chest and nodding a few times. Looking down at me, then back at the machine, he shook his head. “I see that.”

“You’re probably wondering why I brought it here?” I asked.

His mouth split into a grin. “I mean... yeah?”

I threw my hands in the air and then grabbed the machine.

Lugging it to his wooden coffee table, I plopped myself on the brown carpet in front of it.

I stared at the thread in the top of the machine, willing my fingers to be small enough to thread it.

“You’re not going to be any help, but I can’t seem to thread it.

I’ve watched a hundred YouTube videos on how to do it, and I think I get the general concept, but I have fat fingers and I can’t seem to?—”

Then he plopped next to me. He actually plopped, shook the whole coffee table, and stared at the machine before holding up his hands. “These bad boys are much larger, but I’ll do my best.”

“I think it’s my eyesight.” I complained.

“Show me what you’re trying to do?” he inquired.

With an earnest gaze, he followed my movements as I demonstrated the threading process. He nodded in understanding, and I nudged the machine toward him, watching intently as he focused on the task at hand. Despite his efforts, he encountered the same struggles I had faced.

“Damn, this is hard,” he muttered, his nose scrunching up slightly and his jaw clenching in concentration.

While my husband would scoff at the mere idea of sewing, here was someone willing to lend a hand. But if I was still with Layla, she’d help me, and I think that’s what friends do. Alex was my friend.

Ugh, the urge to reach out to him grew stronger.

My fingers itched to trace the contours of his jawline, to feel the warmth of his skin.

His furrowed brow and determined expression only added to his allure, igniting a spark within me that I struggled to contain.

It was a reckless longing, forbidden and dangerous, yet undeniably intoxicating.

I fought against the overwhelming temptation, knowing such thoughts were forbidden, that I was bound by vows to another. But in that moment, as the tension crackled between us, the yearning for his warmth became impossible to ignore.

He leaned down, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking the tips, and all I thought about was his comment about pineapples a few months ago and how badly I’d wanted him to show me what it was like to feel a man’s lips against my sensitive parts.

My breathing had gone ragged, and I swear my brain was short-circuiting the longer I looked at him.

He paused, finger in his mouth, his eyes still intent on the machine, and asked, “You okay?”

Fuck. I’d been caught, embarrassingly so. “Totally fine.” I fibbed.

He raised his eyebrow in disbelief and then went back to focusing on the machine. “I think I got it.”

“Holy shit,” I exclaimed, sitting up straighter and turning my focus to the machine. I looked closer and realized he had managed to thread it. “You did it,” I squealed.

I turned toward him, wanting to hug him, but pulling back on that instinct. “Thank you,” I said softly.

His lips spread into a soft smile. “You’re welcome. Now, are you going to really tell me why a sewing machine is in my apartment and why you need me to thread it?”

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I can take it back. Sorry,” I murmured, a rush of self-consciousness washing over me.

But Alex shook his head adamantly. “No, Anastasia. I want you here.” His voice was gentle yet firm.

Our eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, a spark ignited deep within me, sending a surge of heat to my lower belly.

“I’m curious,” he added.

I averted my gaze as my fingers grazed the surface of the sewing machine.

It represented my freedom, a precious semblance of independence that I clung to fiercely.

With it, I’d fashion my own garments, a small act of defiance in the face of my constraints.

The realization brought a lump to my throat, and I fought back the tears that threatened to spill over.

“I wanted to learn how to sew,” I confessed, my voice wavering slightly.

“Okay,” he said, getting up from the floor. “What’re we making?” he asked from the kitchen.

“A shirt,” I said, moving my hands to the pedal as I shifted so it was easier to reach them by sitting on the couch.

“A shirt...” He came back to the couch and dropped an extra brownie on the table for me. “Cool.”

And that was the end of our conversation as he sat there, in silence, watching as I fumbled my way trying to make a shirt.

“Well, it’s certainly a shirt,” Alex said, putting his hands through two of the eight holes I had accidentally made.

I was laughing so hard I was clutching my stomach.

“It’s for an octopus, maybe?” he said, trying to pull it down, but it was so tiny that it fit him right below his chest.

“This is such a failure,” I said, rolling onto the wooden floors and kicking my feet like it was the funniest thing that had happened to me.

“It’s not a failure,” he said. He adjusted the shirt so the three extra holes kind of stuck out in the front, looking more like tubes. “The color is cool.”

I’d picked a pretty blue fabric. It was simple enough, but with all the holes, it looked absurd.

Alex looked outside, and then I glanced back at the clock, realizing it was already ten. “Are you really not going anywhere for the week?”

He shrugged, the shirt still on. “Nah. I have better things here.” He winked and quickly changed the topic. “Wanna grab some noodles? I know a good lo mein place down the block.”

For a moment, I hesitated. What if someone from the team was also still here and saw us together? We’d never been out in public together, neither of us had the other’s phone numbers. We really only saw each other on these small nights together.

With Dimitri gone, there was no reason we shouldn’t go out. I simply shrugged. “Sure. Let me get my purse from upstairs,” I said, remembering the money Dimitri had left me was sitting on the table.

“Nah. It’s on me tonight.” He headed to the door as I stood.

“You don’t have to do that.” I chased after him and then realized he was still wearing the octopus shirt. “Aren’t you going to change?”

He looked down at the holey blue fabric—because I’m not even sure if “shirt” could describe what it was. “You made this for me. I am wearing it out.”

I cocked my head to the side. “No, you absolutely are not.”

My eyes drifted down as his shirt started to ride up, revealing more of his chest. His well-defined pecs and chiseled abs peeked out, showcasing his muscular physique. His body was sculpted, each muscle standing out in sharp relief.

“It doesn’t even fit,” I added, my gaze lingering on his impressive form.

He looked down, tugging it past his nipples. “Looks like it fits fine.”

“Alex Popov.” I put my hands on my hips, grounding myself in the middle of the hallway.

He reached out for my hand. “Come on, malyshka.”

Malyshka? I froze. Why would he call me ‘baby’ in Russian? Was that... intentional?

“I meant Anastasia.”

I huffed, ignoring it because he must’ve made a mistake. “It’s just Stassi. I don’t know how many times we need to go over that.”

He shook his head. “It’ll always be Anastasia to me.”