Artyom was on his way downstairs for water when he heard Viktor's voice from the living room.
"Tyoma, can I have a minute?"
He stopped, gripping the banister. Only a few hours had passed since that dinner, but Artyom had already retreated to his room and locked himself in, citing exhaustion.
"Sure."
Viktor was on the sofa with a glass of whisky. The floor lamp cast a warm light across his face, picking out the silver at his temples. He looked tired, but settled.
"Sit down, please."
Artyom sat in the armchair across from him and straightened his back. An automatic response. Ready for a conversation he had no interest in having.
"I wanted to talk to you about Vlad."
Of course. Who else.
"You understand, this is... a difficult time for him." Viktor turned his glass slowly in his hands. "New city, new team. His mother's gone. He doesn't know anyone here."
Artyom said nothing, not sure what to say.
"I know there was... tension between you two. On the ice." Viktor looked at him carefully. "But that's in the past now, isn't it? You're on the same team. More than that, we're family."
The word landed like something sharp.
"I wanted to ask you..." Viktor leaned forward. "To look out for him. A little. Just help him find his footing. You know the city, the university, the team. And Vlad -- he's proud, he won't ask for help, but he needs it."
Artyom felt something tighten in his chest. Look out for Lebedev? Him, who had spent three years imagining getting even?
"He doesn't have a car right now," Viktor continued. "Public transport across the whole city is a nightmare."
Artyom understood where this was going about a second before Viktor said it out loud.
"Could you give him a ride? To the university, back from practice. You're heading the same direction anyway. And I'd feel better knowing you're together. I trust you, Tyoma."
"I trust you."
A man he had known for six months trusted him with his son. The son Artyom would have preferred never to see again.
"I..." Artyom swallowed. How did you say no to this without looking like an asshole? "Of course. No problem."
Viktor lit up.
"Thank you, son. I knew I could count on you."
"Son." Viktor had been using the word since the first days after the move, easily and naturally, as if it had always been this way. As if six months under the same roof made them family.
Artyom stood, nodded, and walked out of the living room. Something pressed against his ribs, making it hard to breathe. He climbed the stairs, closed his door behind him, and leaned against it.
Drive Lebedev. Every day. In his car. Together.
"This is going to be a disaster."
* * *
Thursday morning, someone knocked on his door at seven.
"Tyoma, could you wake up Vlad?" His mother's voice, through the door, carrying a note of apology. "He has class at nine. Viktor already left, and I need to get to work."
Artyom closed his eyes and counted to ten.
"Okay, Mom."
He pulled on a t-shirt, went out into the hallway, and knocked on the door across from his. Silence. He knocked harder.
"Lebedev. Get up."
A vague mumbling came from inside.
Artyom opened the door.
The room looked like a search had been conducted. Clothes everywhere -- on the floor, the chair, the bed. A sharp smell hung in the air, cologne or deodorant. Vlad was lying face-down, cheek pressed into the pillow, in nothing but boxers. The blanket had ended up on the floor.
"Lebedev," Artyom said, louder. "You have class."
Vlad rolled over, opened one eye. His hair was pointing in every direction. There was a crease from the pillowcase across his cheek.
"What time is it?" His voice was rough with sleep.
"Seven. We leave at eight."
"Eight?" Vlad sat up, rubbing his face. "Why so early?"
"Because there's traffic across the whole city. If you want to be on time, be ready."
Artyom turned to go, but Vlad called after him.
"Hey. What are we taking?"
"My car."
"That old thing?" Vlad raised an eyebrow, pushing his hair back. "Seriously? It'll actually make it?"
Something snapped.
Artyom turned around slowly.
"Then walk."
"What?"
"I said, walk." He kept his voice even, almost bored. "My car, my rules. If you don't like it, feel free to use your feet."
Vlad blinked. The smirk was gone.
"Hey, I didn't mean--" He raised his hands. "Sorry, okay? That came out wrong. I just... I'm used to things being different."
"Eight o'clock. If you're not out there, I'm leaving without you."
Artyom walked out and pulled the door shut behind him.
* * *
At seven fifty-nine, Vlad came out of the house. Jeans, gray t-shirt, the same leather jacket. Backpack over one shoulder. Hair still damp -- he had managed a shower.
Artyom was sitting behind the wheel, tapping his fingers against it. He turned the key when Vlad opened the passenger door.
"On time," Artyom said.
"As you can see."
Vlad got in and pulled the door shut. A wave of mint toothpaste and that same sharp cologne.
They drove in silence. Artyom watched the road. Vlad watched the window. A meter of space between them and miles of things unsaid.
"Hey," Vlad broke the quiet when they were stuck in traffic. "About the car. I'm just... slow in the mornings."
Artyom shrugged.
"Forget it."
"No, I mean it." Vlad turned toward him. "I appreciate the ride. I know you don't have to do this."
"Your dad asked."
"Yeah." Vlad gave a crooked smile. "He's good at that. Asking in a way that makes it hard to say no."
Artyom said nothing, but something in that line caught somewhere. Viktor really was.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, though a lighter one than before.
* * *
Almost a full week had gone by since Vlad joined the team. Tuesday's practice had been... survivable. Boris Petrovich had run them into the ground. Artyom and Vlad had stopped openly ignoring each other on the ice. Their passing had gotten a little better. A little.
After practice, Voronov made his announcement:
"Alright, boys, we're celebrating tonight! Lebedev's been with us a week -- time to make him buy the first round!"
The team responded with general enthusiasm.
Artyom headed for the locker room without a word. He had never loved these outings. Loud bars, beer, conversation that went nowhere. He always felt slightly out of place, like he'd walked into the wrong room.
"Sokolov, you coming?" Makarov called.
"No, things to do."
"Come on! Relax for once!"
"I said no."
Artyom changed faster than anyone, grabbed his bag, and made for the exit. But Vlad cut him off at the door.
"Sokolov." His voice was low, almost a whisper, close enough that Artyom could feel the warmth of his breath. "You don't want my dad and your mom finding out you abandoned me, do you? First week and all."
Artyom went still.
"What?"
"Think about it." Vlad's mouth curved, but his eyes weren't smiling. "Dad asked you to look out for me. And you took off, left me alone with people I barely know. How's that going to look?"
"Bastard. Manipulative bastard."
"One hour." Vlad held up a finger. "Sit with us, have a beer, then you're free. I'm not asking for much."
Artyom clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.
"One hour."
"Perfect."
* * *
The sports bar was packed. An NHL game on the big screens overhead, music thumping, the smell of fried food and draft beer.
The Wolves took over a big table in the corner. Voronov had already ordered a round, wings, nachos.
"To our new defenseman!" He raised his glass. "To Vlad!"
"To Vlad!" the team echoed.
Vlad laughed and clinked glasses all around. He looked relaxed, at ease, like he belonged. He cracked jokes, told stories about his old team, made everyone at the table lean in closer.
Artyom sat at the far end, nursing his beer. Watching.
Vlad was different here. Not the sharp, difficult person he was around Artyom. Here he was open, easy, genuinely funny.
Why is he never like that with me?
"Hey, Captain!" Petrov nudged him with his elbow. "Why the long face? Loosen up!"
"I'm loose."
"Sure, very convincing. You look like a goalie facing a shootout."
Artyom snorted and took another sip. The beer was cold. The wings were good and spicy. The music was loud. Around him people were laughing and arguing about the game.
And somewhere between the second beer and the third round of nachos, Artyom realized that he was... enjoying himself.
He liked being here. With the team. Not alone in a quiet room with a book.
Maybe Voronov had a point. Maybe he should do this more often.
* * *
One hour turned into two. Artyom could feel a slight buzz from three beers -- not drunk, but definitely not fit to drive. He was opening the taxi app on his phone when a group of girls appeared at their table.
"Oh, you're hockey players, right?" A blonde in a fitted top beamed at them. "We saw you last month!"
"Stars of the game, that's us," Voronov laughed. "Sit down, ladies!"
They didn't need to be asked twice. One of them, a tall brunette with bold red lips and green eyes, sat down right next to Vlad.
"You're new, aren't you?" She leaned closer. "I haven't seen you before."
"Vlad. Just transferred."
"Nastya." She smiled, resting her hand on his shoulder. Her nails were long and painted bright red. "Does that mean you're free tonight?"
Vlad smiled back, that familiar glint appearing in his eyes.
"Completely free."
"Perfect!" Nastya shifted closer, her knee brushing his under the table. "So -- dancing, or should we just stay here and get to know each other?"
"Second option sounds better."
Artyom watched this, his hand tightening around his glass. Vlad flirted like breathing -- effortlessly, naturally. Nastya laughed, tossed her hair, touched his arm, leaned in until her neckline did most of the talking.
And something inside Artyom began to simmer.
He stood up abruptly, holding up his phone.
"Alright, I'm heading out. Taxi's almost here."
"What? Already?" Voronov looked up. "The night's just getting started!"
"Early morning tomorrow. Classes." Artyom pulled on his jacket. "Good night, everyone."
"Come on, Captain!" Makarov waved him off. "One more hour! The girls just got here!"
"I really have to go. Have fun."
He dropped some cash on the table and made for the exit.
Vlad watched him go, and Artyom caught something flicker across his face. Recognition. Then irritation.
"Hold on, I'll--" Vlad started, but Nastya put her hand on his leg.
"You're not leaving, are you?" She pouted. "We just met."
Vlad glanced at Artyom, already nearly at the door. Then at the girl. She really was attractive. Very. And clearly interested.
But if he didn't go back with Artyom...
He could already picture his father's face. 'Where were you? Why didn't you come home with Artyom? I asked him to look after you.'
Damn.
"Sorry, Nastya," he said, touching her hand briefly. "I actually have to run. Give me your number?"
"Oh, can't you stay just a little longer?" She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Or I could come with you?"
"Can't. I mean it, I'm sorry."
He untangled himself carefully, grabbed his jacket, and made for the exit.
* * *
The cold night air hit his face. Artyom was standing at the curb, eyes on his phone. A white taxi was pulling up.
"Hey!" Vlad burst through the bar door. "Wait up!"
Artyom turned. One eyebrow.
"What?"
"I'm coming with you."
"Why?"
"Because..." Vlad trailed off, glanced back at the bar. Nobody from the team had followed. "I'm going home too. I'm tired."
The taxi stopped. Artyom opened the back door and got in. Vlad got in beside him and pulled the door shut.
"Sosnoviy Bor, number 47," Artyom told the driver.
The car pulled out.
Vlad sat rigid, fists on his thighs, staring out the window. Artyom could feel the irritation coming off him in waves.
"Seriously?" Vlad finally said, about three minutes into the silence. "You couldn't have waited ten minutes?"
Artyom kept looking at his window.
"I didn't even get her number!" Vlad turned toward him. "She was genuinely into me, and I had to bail and run after you because otherwise your dad's going to hear about it!"
Silence.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror but said nothing.
"Why aren't you saying anything?!" Vlad hit the seat with his fist. "I didn't ask you to drag me out of there! I didn't ask you to save me from a girl I actually liked!"
Artyom's jaw tightened.
"Or is this some kind of payback?" Vlad's voice went sharp. "For what I said about the car? Decided to ruin my evening?"
Red light. The taxi stopped.
"You know what?" Vlad leaned back and closed his eyes. "Forget it. You're not going to answer anyway. You only talk to me when you have to. The rest of the time it's like I don't exist."
Green light. The car moved again.
"I figured it out, didn't I?" Vlad opened his eyes and looked at him. "You wanted to punish me. For the car, for everything. And it worked."
Artyom flinched slightly, but said nothing.
"That's why I followed you," Vlad continued, quieter now. "Not because I wanted to. Because otherwise everyone would think we had a fight. And we're supposed to be one big happy family, right?"
He went quiet, turning back to the window.
"Whatever. I'll get her number from Makarov tomorrow."
The taxi turned into Sosnoviy Bor. Familiar streets, streetlamps, neat fences behind neat houses.
Vlad kept muttering, more to himself than anyone:
"First decent girl in a week... Actually pretty... And you just... god..."
Artyom didn't say a single word before they reached the house.
* * *
Viktor was waiting for them. He was in the living room with his laptop, and looked up when they came in.
"Back already! How was it?"
"Good," said Artyom, hanging up his jacket.
"Great," Vlad muttered, heading for the stairs. "But short."
"Vlad." Viktor closed the laptop. "Hold on. We need to talk."
"Not now, Dad. I'm wrecked."
"Now." There was something firm in his voice. "Sit down."
Vlad froze on the first step, turned around. His expression said exactly what he thought about this.
"About what?"
"Sit down, I said."
Vlad came back down slowly and dropped into the armchair. Artyom stood in the doorway, unsure whether to stay or go.
"You too, Tyoma." Viktor nodded toward the sofa. "This concerns you both."
Artyom sat, reluctantly.
Viktor looked at his son with his hands folded across his chest.
"Some things are going to change, Vlad. You live here now, under my roof, by my rules. Home before midnight. Every class, every practice. No skipping. And don't think for a second I won't find out."
Vlad rolled his eyes.
"Seriously? A curfew? I'm twenty-one, Dad."
"I don't care how old you are. My house, my rules."
"Come on, this is--"
"And another thing." Viktor cut him off. "Don't imagine that Artyom is giving you rides out of the goodness of his heart. It was my request, and he agreed to help me. One wrong move, Vlad, one, and you're on your own. You can figure it all out yourself."
Artyom hadn't expected Viktor to draw the line that hard. He tensed.
"What am I, a child?" Vlad shot up from the chair. "I can take the bus! I don't need your help! And that car could fall apart on the way -- the last thing I need is to break down in it!"
Silence fell.
Something hot moved through Artyom's chest. That word again. For the third time today.
Viktor rose slowly.
"What did you just say?"
Vlad went still, apparently realizing he'd overstepped.
"I... nothing."
"Say it again." Viktor took a step closer. "What did you just call Artyom's car?"
Vlad looked at Artyom, then back at his father.
"Drop it, Dad, I didn't mean it like that..."
"You meant exactly that." Viktor's voice stayed quiet, but it had an edge to it. "You seem to have forgotten how you wrote off the car I bought you. Hadn't even had it a month."
Vlad went pale.
"That was an accident..."
"An accident in which you were doing a hundred and twenty through the city!" Viktor's voice rose. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Lucky you didn't hurt anyone else. And the car? Totaled. Two hundred thousand, gone."
"Dad..."
"You don't have a car," Viktor said, one word at a time, "because you proved you're not ready for one. And Artyom drives his late father's car. He takes care of it. Maintains it. He agreed -- and he didn't have to -- he agreed to drive you. And you call it a piece of junk?"
Vlad stood there, fists tight, face red.
"Apologize," Viktor said.
"What?"
"Apologize. To Artyom. Right now."
Vlad looked at Artyom. His expression was a mess of anger, embarrassment, and something stubborn underneath.
"Sorry," he said, through his teeth.
Artyom nodded once. He didn't believe a word of it.
"Now go to your room." Viktor waved a hand. "And think about how you've been behaving."
Vlad turned and went up the stairs. His door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
Viktor dropped back into his chair and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.
"I'm sorry you had to see that, Tyoma."
"It's fine."
"He's... difficult. Always has been." Viktor sighed. "But he's a good kid. He just doesn't know how to show it."
Artyom nodded and stood.
"I'm going to bed."
"Good night, son."
* * *
Artyom was up at five. He dressed quietly, picked up his bag, and slipped downstairs. The house was still asleep.
He went out, got in the car, and drove away.
He called Pasha while he was still on the road.
"Hello?" A sleepy voice.
"Pasha, can I stay at yours for a few days?"
"What? Tyoma? What time is it?"
"Early. Sorry. Can I?"
A pause.
"Yeah, of course. Did you and your mom have a fight?"
"I just... need some breathing room."
"Alright. Come over."
* * *
Three days at Pasha's. A small one-room apartment on the edge of the city, a fold-out couch, the smell of old carpet, and pizza every night for dinner. But Vlad wasn't there. Viktor wasn't there with his quiet 'son' and his expecting eyes. His mother wasn't watching him and trying not to show it.
Here he could breathe.
Pasha didn't ask questions. He just cleared the couch, threw over a pillow, and said, 'Beer's in the fridge.' That was why Artyom liked him.
* * *
Wednesday, Artyom arrived first, as always. He changed alone in the quiet, came out onto the ice ahead of everyone else. He skated in circles, letting the cold air work on him, chasing the tension from his muscles one lap at a time.
The team trickled in gradually. Voronov yawning, Makarov complaining about the previous night. Semyonov methodically working the straps on his goalie pads.
Vlad was last.
Artyom felt it at the back of his neck -- a gaze that settled on him a beat too long. He didn't turn around. Kept skating, kept his breathing even.
"Two laps to warm up!" Boris Petrovich called from the boards. "Then attack drills!"
Artyom found his rhythm. His body knew what to do: glide, push, turn. The old familiar dance.
"Sokolov!" Vlad called.
Artyom pushed harder.
"Hey, Captain!" Vlad caught up. "Can we talk?"
Artyom didn't answer. Just kept moving, as if he hadn't heard.
"Seriously?" Vlad pulled alongside him. "You're ignoring me?"
Silence.
"Fine," Vlad said, his voice flat. "Great. We'll do this the silent treatment way."
He fell back.
* * *
Practice was tense. Boris Petrovich drove them hard: attack drills, passing, shooting. Artyom gave everything he had. Maybe more than everything.
He played harder than usual. Each shot like letting something out. Each collision like setting something down.
"Sokolov, ease up!" Boris Petrovich shouted when Artyom drove Petrov into the boards for the third time. "This is practice, not the cup final!"
Artyom nodded. He didn't ease up.
Boris Petrovich watched him with a furrowed brow. Something was off with the captain today. Too wound up. Too closed.
* * *
After practice, the locker room was its usual controlled chaos. Petrov cursing at a buckle that wouldn't cooperate. Semyonov wiping down his mask. Someone humming something, someone else running a postmortem on last night's NHL game.
But everyone kept stealing glances at Artyom and Vlad, sitting at opposite ends of the bench, packing their bags in silence.
Voronov leaned close to Makarov and dropped his voice.
"You noticed?"
"What?"
"The captain and the new guy. They haven't looked at each other once."
"So? Maybe they just don't get along."
"No." Voronov shook his head. "Something real happened. You see how Lebedev tried to talk to him? Sokolov just skated past him like he was invisible."
"You think they had a fight?"
"Obviously."
* * *
Friday's game wasn't anything special mid-season, a mid-table opponent. The Wolves should have taken it easily.
Something went wrong.
Artyom played hard. Too hard. He threw himself at every attack like a man with something to prove, didn't wait for passes, didn't look around. He was playing against everyone, alone against the world.
Two goals, both solo. He drove through, beat the defense, scored. Picked up a penalty for a rough hit along the boards.
Vlad worked hard too, but in the wrong places. Covering the wrong zones. Passing to the wrong players. As if he was deliberately pretending Artyom didn't exist on the ice.
"LEBEDEV!" Boris Petrovich roared from the bench. "LEFT SIDE! LOOK LEFT!"
Vlad either didn't hear it or chose not to.
In the second period, the inevitable happened.
Artyom was carrying the puck and saw an open lane to the right where Vlad was standing. Perfect position for a pass. He didn't take it. He tried to go himself instead.
Vlad had already moved, expecting the puck. It never came. He lost his footing. The opposing defenseman read the gap and scored.
2-2.
Between periods, the locker room sat in a dead silence.
Boris Petrovich walked in and closed the door.
"Sokolov. Lebedev. What exactly is going on out there?"
Artyom looked at the floor. Vlad looked at the wall.
"I'm asking you a question!"
"Sorry, Coach," Artyom said.
"Sorry? You're out there playing like two guys who've never touched a puck in their lives. Where's the connection? Where are the passes? Where is the TEAM?"
Silence.
"I don't know what's going on between you, and I don't care. But when you're on the ice, you work TOGETHER. Understood?"
"Understood," Artyom and Vlad said at the same time.
The third period was marginally better. The Wolves won 4-3, but the game was ugly and fractured, a mess from start to finish.
After the match, the locker room murmured in hushed voices.
Voronov leaned into Makarov:
"Did you see that? Sokolov wouldn't pass to Lebedev once. And Lebedev played the whole game like the captain wasn't out there."
"Yeah, even Coach noticed. You see how he went at them between periods?"
"Something happened. Sokolov's been checked out for days. Doesn't talk to anyone after practice."
Artyom heard every word. He pretended he hadn't. He changed in silence and packed his bag.
Vlad was at the other end of the bench. Also silent. Four meters and a chasm of unsaid things between them.
Semyonov, the goalkeeper, broke first.
"Guys, come on. You're a team."
"Stay out of it, Semyon," Artyom said, without looking up.
Semyonov raised his hands and turned away.
Artyom grabbed his bag and was the first one out.
The arena lobby was crowded. People filing out after the game -- fans in Wolves scarves, families with kids, groups of teenagers. Noise everywhere, laughter, arguments about that last goal, complaints about the officiating. Someone was pushing a stroller, someone else had a large coffee and was spilling it.
Artyom shouldered through the crowd, bag in front of him. The smell of popcorn, sweat, cold air drifting in from outside.
"Sokolov!" someone called. "Two goals, man!"
He nodded without stopping.
His phone buzzed. Mom.
He pressed it to his ear, trying to block out the noise around him.
"Hello?"
"Tyomochka." Her voice was worried. "Where are you? You've been gone for three days."
"I'm... at Pasha's. We're working on a test."
"Three days of working on a test?" A note of doubt. "Viktor's worried. Vlad said you two had a fight."
Artyom stopped in the middle of the lobby. Someone bumped his elbow going past.
"Vlad said that?"
"He said you... didn't get along. That something happened. Did it?"
"No, Mom. Everything's fine. It was just a misunderstanding. And I really did need to study with Pasha."
A long pause.
"Tyoma." Her voice was gentle. "If something's wrong, you can tell me. I'll understand."
"Everything's fine, I promise."
"Alright. But please come home. Viktor's worried. We all are."
"I'll be there tonight."
"Thank you, sweetheart. Love you."
"Love you too."
He ended the call and looked up.
And saw them.
Vlad was standing near the exit. Nastya was beside him -- the same girl from the bar. She was laughing, her hand on his arm. Vlad was smiling back, easy and relaxed.
Nastya leaned up and said something in his ear. Vlad smiled wider and nodded.
They walked out together toward the parking lot.
Artyom stood there, squeezing his phone hard enough to feel the case flex.
So he got her number after all. So they're seeing each other now.
Something bitter and burning moved up into his throat.
"Why do I even care?"
* * *
Artyom got home late that evening. The house was warm and quiet, lights on inside.
Viktor was in the living room with a newspaper. He looked up and smiled.
"Tyoma! Good to have you back. How did the test go?"
"Fine."
"Great game today. I was watching the feed. Two goals -- well done!" He paused. "Though Boris Petrovich mentioned in the group chat that you and Vlad still haven't quite clicked. But that'll come."
"Thanks."
Artyom moved past him toward the stairs.
"Tyoma." Viktor's voice followed him. "Is everything alright? Between you and Vlad?"
Artyom stopped on the step.
"Yes. Everything's fine."
"Good." Viktor didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. "Glad to hear it. We're family now."
Family. That word again.
Artyom nodded and went up to his room.
* * *
The night stretched on. Artyom turned over in bed for what felt like the hundredth time and checked his phone. Two in the morning.
He stared at the ceiling again. Sleep wouldn't come.
Vlad. Nastya. Their laughter. Her hand on his shoulder. Why does it matter to me?
Artyom got up, pulled on a t-shirt, and stepped out into the hall. The house was asleep -- just the faint hum of the refrigerator from downstairs.
He went down barefoot, into the kitchen. Opened the fridge, took out a water bottle.
"Can't sleep?"
Artyom startled and spun around.
Vlad was in the doorway. Sweatpants, bare feet, hair everywhere. He clearly hadn't been sleeping either.
"Hot," Artyom said shortly, and took a sip.
"Yeah."
Vlad walked to the fridge and took his own water. They stood side by side, less than a meter apart.
Tense silence.
"Hey." Vlad spoke first. "About the car..."
"Forget it." Artyom set his bottle on the counter. "I don't care."
"Yes, you do." Vlad looked at him. "I can see that you do. Three days away, ignoring me at practice..."
"Maybe I just don't have anything to say to you."
Vlad was quiet for a moment.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. Your car is fine, you take care of it. And I'm sorry I called it--"
"I'm going to sleep. Early start tomorrow."
Artyom turned for the door, but Vlad stepped forward and caught his wrist.
"Wait. Let me finish."
Artyom pulled his hand back sharply.
"Don't."
"Just hear me out!" Vlad didn't retreat. "I'm trying to apologize, and you're--"
"I don't want your apology."
Artyom walked out of the kitchen without looking back. Up the stairs. Behind him, he heard a quiet 'Damn.'
He closed his bedroom door and leaned against it.
His heart was going too fast. His wrist was still warm where Vlad had grabbed it.
"What is happening to me?"
He lay down and closed his eyes.
Sleep didn't come.
All he could think about was Vlad's dark eyes. The low edge of his voice. The way he had looked at him in the kitchen.
And Nastya. Her hand on his shoulder.
"What the hell."
Artyom rolled onto his other side and buried his face in the pillow.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would sort through this. Tomorrow it would be clearer.
But somewhere beneath the exhaustion, he already knew.
Nothing was going to get clearer.
Everything was about to get more complicated.
34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEL994L0Zp1
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