"Then hit me again in the morning," he whispered.
Then, very softly, he said something else. "You're the only thing that feels real."
Sofia did not answer.
She stood and walked to the bed.
She lay down beside him without touching.
And for the first time in a long time, they both slept.
In silence.
In danger.
In peace.
The snow kept falling outside.
But the room stayed warm.
She woke up before him.
The fire had burned low in the corner of the cabin. The snow outside was falling harder than before, almost covering the small glass window. Her body ached. Not from the cold. But from everything else. From the long months of chasing death. From the fight in her chest that would not stop. From the night before.
Dmitry lay beside her on the mattress. His shirt was off. His back was turned to her. A faint scar ran down from his shoulder blade. She remembered touching it in her sleep. Or maybe she had just wanted to.
Sofia sat up slowly. The blanket fell from her shoulders. The wooden floor was cold, but she did not care. She walked to the window. The glass was fogged. She wiped it with her hand and stared into the snow. The trees were thick. The path they had come from was now hidden.
They were alone.
She heard him shift behind her. The bed creaked. She did not turn.
"You're watching for wolves?" he asked.
She replied without looking. "Only the ones I know."
He sat up. "Then you should face me."
She turned. "You talk too much."
"And you listen too little."
She walked back to the bed. She sat on the edge. "You should have told me about Ksenia."
He rubbed his neck. "If I told you everything, you would have left."
"I still might," she said.
He smiled faintly. "Not today."
They sat in silence. The fire made soft crackling sounds. Somewhere on the roof, snow dropped in slow thuds.
Then she spoke again. "Do you even know how many people you've killed?"
Dmitry did not answer.
She turned to him. "Do you keep count?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because if I count them, I have to remember them. And if I remember them, I have to see their faces."
Sofia's voice stayed calm. "Then you're a coward."
"I know."
She stood up. "That boy. Volkov. You tortured him. You didn't need to."
"I was told to."
"That's not an excuse."
"I didn't say it was."
She looked down at him. "Why do you do it?"
He rubbed his face with both hands. "Because I was raised to. Because I am too scared to run. Because my father made sure that if I ever walked away, I would have no one left to walk to."
Sofia sat beside him again. "You think that makes you special?"
"No," he said. "I think it makes me just like you."
Her voice grew sharper. "I'm nothing like you."
"You live alone. You trust no one. You watch people die and blame yourself. You hold your gun even when you sleep."
She stared at him.
"You think that makes you good?" he asked. "It makes you like me."
She slapped him again. But this time, he did not stop her hand. He let it hit. He looked at her.
Then he said, "Thank you."
She frowned. "For what?"
"For reminding me that I can still feel something."
They looked at each other for a long time.
She reached for his shirt on the floor and threw it at his chest. "Put this on before I kill you."
He caught it. "If you kill me, who will make the tea?"
"I will. And I'll poison it too."
He stood and walked to the small kitchen. He lit the stove, filled the kettle. She watched his back.
"Your father will find us," she said.
He poured water into two cups. "Yes."
"What will you do?"
He turned and handed her one cup. "I don't know."
She took it.
They drank in silence.
He sat beside her again.
Then he whispered, "I remember the first time I saw you. Not when you stormed into my club. Before that."
She looked at him. "When?"
"Six months ago. You were walking out of a bakery near the university. You smiled at a child. Then you helped an old man cross the street. You looked like someone who didn't belong in this city."
"Why didn't you speak to me then?"
"Because I was covered in blood."
She set the cup down.
Then she said, "I remember the first time I heard your voice. On the phone. Telling me not to go home."
He looked at her. "Why did you listen?"
"I don't know."
He reached for her hand. She let him.
"You kissed me because you were angry," she said.
He nodded. "And now?"
She leaned closer.
And they kissed again.
But it was not like the others.
It was soft. Careful. Almost afraid. Her fingers slid through his hair. His hand moved slowly along her arm. Their lips pressed gently. Then again. Then deeper.
She gasped into his mouth. He breathed her name.
This time, there was no pulling. No biting. No violence. Only skin and breath and the sound of the fire.
He lifted her onto the mattress. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
Their clothes came off, piece by piece, without hurry. She touched every scar on his body. He kissed her slowly. He did not rush.
Her fingers traced his chest. His lips moved along her collarbone.
They held each other like people who had not been held in a long time.
They made love without speaking. Just the sound of skin on skin. Of breath. Of small gasps. Of two people who had tried to survive everything except each other.
She moaned when he entered her. He paused and looked into her eyes. She nodded. He moved gently. Carefully. Like he was afraid to break her.
But she was not afraid.
She pulled him closer. Deeper. Her nails dug into his back. He kissed her cheek. Her neck. Her chest.
She whispered his name.
He whispered hers.
They reached the end together. Shaking. Holding. Alive.
After, they lay still.
His arm was around her. Her head rested on his chest.
The fire had almost died, but neither moved.
Then he spoke softly. "I think I loved you before I met you."