43. April

43

APRIL

When I hear the keycard beep, I tense.

Matvey's back. Once, the thought would've made me light up like a Christmas tree. But now…

Now, I don't even know if he'll look at me.

He strides in. Of course—he lives here now. He's not going to ring the doorbell anymore. No need for me to let him in. That little ritual hasn't been gone a day, and I already miss it like hell.

"Good evening," he greets impassively, putting down his briefcase.

I force a smile. "Evening."

Then his gaze sweeps over the table.

I wince. I already know what he's frowning at: a spread of takeout foods with no rhyme or reason, from pizza to noodles to sushi rolls. "Do I need to call Dr. Allan back?" he asks, but there's an amused lilt to it. "Get you checked for tapeworms?"

Finally, my smile turns real. "Petra," I explain simply.

Matvey nods. "Yeah. That tracks."

"It does?"

"She's got weird ways to show she cares." He hangs his jacket and loosens his tie. "Like a cat."

"Do I need to worry?" I joke. "Is she gonna leave dead things on my pillow for me to find?"

"She hasn't already?"

I bite my cheek. Now, this —this is what family dinner's supposed to be all about. Bantering, messing around. Sharing secret smiles over stupid jokes.

I take a few steps towards Matvey. My hands find his tie, slipping it free. "She's not the only one, you know."

Matvey's throat bobs. "The only one?"

"Who's got weird ways to show they care."

Kiss me , I tell him with my eyes. Show me you care.

But he doesn't.

"We should eat." He clears his throat. "Food's gonna go cold."

I let my hands fall. "Yeah. Let's."

For the first time since this little ritual began, we spend it in silence. There's the clinking sound of cutlery and chopsticks, the bubbling of water and wine. But nothing else. No jokes, no laughter, no glances.

Look at me , I beg the whole time inside my mind. Stop pretending I'm not here. Just tell me what I did wrong. I'll fix it, I promise. I'll do my best.

Just look at me!

But he doesn't.

I've been staring at the ceiling for the past two hours.

"What's wrong, Nugget?" I mutter into the darkness, a hand on my belly. "Why can't you sleep?"

Of course, it's not Nugget. My baby's curled up and cozy, and I bet it wants nothing more than for its mommy to stop tossing and turning so we can both get some quality rest.

But no matter what I do, I just can't close my eyes. The silence. The loneliness. It all feels too familiar.

Snap out of it , I order myself. This isn't like back then. I'm not…

Not what? A guest? A nuisance?

Unwanted?

Then, suddenly, there's a noise in the kitchen.

I stretch my ears. For a second, I'm terrified. Are the masked men back?

Reflexively, I pat the space next to me. The space Matvey slept in last night, holding me close until morning.

Now, it's empty.

I slip out of bed. I grab something from the nightstand. Silently, I pad out of my room.

And then I hear a familiar voice curse. " Blyat'. "

I slump. "Couldn't sleep?"

From the kitchen sink, Matvey turns to me. In the semi-darkness of the room, all I can see are the shadows on his face. "April." Then: "Is that a frying pan?"

"Judge all you like," I shrug. "This baby's been christened in battle." I glimpse a few shards of broken glass in the sink. "Are you hurt?" I ask immediately, taking his hand without thinking.

Matvey shakes his head. "It's just a cut."

"That's what Khal Drogo said, and look what happened to him." I grab the first-aid kit under the sink. Then I swipe two intact glasses from the cabinet and fill them with water. "Sit."

"I'm fine . "

"And after a little disinfectant, you'll be even finer." My lips twitch, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Or are you afraid I'll put a spell on you?"

Without another word, Matvey complies.

To his credit, he wasn't lying: it really is just a tiny cut. A couple of dabs of soaked cotton, a little bandage, and it'll be good as new.

"Where did you learn how to do this?" Matvey asks as I work, breaking the silence.

"I was a total klutz as a kid," I answer. "Got my fair share of bumps and scrapes. Figured it'd be quicker if I learned how to take care of them myself."

I don't say the quiet part out loud: Because no one else would.

But Matvey seems to hear it anyway. "You're good at it."

"Thanks."

I don't tell him that it's just another way for me to fix things. Tailoring, nursing—all of it's just more of the same. Taking what's broken and giving it a second chance, a third, a fourth.

Then maybe it won't have to be thrown away.

Silence falls between us again. But this time, it doesn't feel as tense as before. Maybe it's the night; maybe it's the city lights dancing in from the balcony. When it's late like this, everything takes on a different hue.

Even loneliness.

"You know," I venture, "when I was a kid, I used to have all sorts of nightmares."

Matvey's face tells me I hit the nail on the head. Not that the big bad Bratva Puckman would ever admit to having nightmares. Clearly, it's nightmares who have him. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm. Sometimes, it was just your run-of-the-mill jump scare: monsters under the bed, ghosts behind the curtains, creepy dolls coming alive."

"Can't relate." Matvey shrugs. "I didn't really dream as a kid."

We all dream , I think but don't say. We just can't always remember.

Sometimes, it's too painful to remember.

"It wasn't those dreams I was afraid about, though," I continue. While I talk, I start wrapping gauze around the shallow cut on his palm. "After those, I could usually go right back to sleep. But when the real nightmares came, then I'd just stare at the ceiling until dawn."

A beat goes by. Two.

"What nightmares were those?" Matvey asks eventually.

I shouldn't be telling him this. I shouldn't be telling anyone this. Old wounds should fester in silence, at least when it comes to someone like me. Someone who's too weak to fix herself.

But the night's making me bolder. For some reason, right now, I can't find my fears anywhere.

"Sometimes, it was my parents," I confess. "Throwing me out, sending me away. Or, God forbid, getting married to each other again."

"Sounds like a nightmare alright," Matvey scoffs.

I snort. Can't disagree with that. "Other times, it was just… me. Alone, somewhere I couldn't recognize. I'd scream myself hoarse for someone— anyone —to come get me. But no one would."

It's strange. For the past few days, all I've wanted was for Matvey to look at me.

But now, I'm the one who can't bring myself to look at him.

"What would you do?" I hear his deep voice ask. "When that happened?"

"Burst out crying," I tell him frankly. "The one who actually knew what to do was my grandmother. She'd give me a tall glass of water, just like this—" I shake my glass for emphasis, "—and make me drink it all. ‘Water purifies,' she used to say. ‘Water heals.' And then…" I smile. "Then she'd sing to me."

"Sing?"

"Yeah. Sometimes in French, sometimes in Creole. They were the lullabies she grew up with in Haiti." A sudden memory makes me laugh. "There was one about a crab. If you didn't sleep, it would eat you."

"How comforting," he drawls sarcastically. "Must've put you out like a light."

"Eh." I shrug and grin. "It's like German fairytales: it's the thought that counts. Besides, the crab didn't actually eat you in the end." I try to remember how that song went. "‘ Dodo ti pitit manman,' " I sing quietly under my breath. "‘ Dodo ti pitit papa…' "

Suddenly, I realize Matvey's staring. "What?" I laugh, embarrassed.

"Nothing," he replies a little too quickly. "You are…" He clears his throat. "Your grandmother must've been quite a person."

I smile. "She was definitely that. Her life alone… You could've written a book about it. She was my grandfather's second wife. When it happened, remarriages weren't all that common, and mixed marriages even less. She had a rough go of it, especially with my dad."

"Your father didn't like her?" Matvey ventures.

"Not one bit." It's still painful to think about—how rejected she must've felt. By society, by her husband's own son, by everyone. "But she didn't mind me. She took me in and raised me as her own, in her home. For that, I'm forever grateful."

I don't mention what happened to that home. It feels dirty, somehow—the thought of bringing money into this. Under the cover of darkness, everything feels more honest. Sacred. Raw.

Suddenly, I realize I can't take it.

"Well then." I clap to put a bookend on that morbid detour in the conversation as I rise to my feet. "Drink it all. Keep those bandages dry."

"Or the crab will eat me?" Matvey teases.

It's too much. The night, the lights, us . The way Matvey's looking at me—finally looking at me—with an intensity I can't bear.

"Or the crab will swallow you whole, yes."

Matvey rises with me. Then, surprisingly, he takes my hand.

He doesn't kiss it, but his thumb comes up to stroke my knuckles. Somehow, it feels even more intimate like this. More raw.

"Goodnight, April."

Twenty-three steps between our rooms. I know, because I counted them. Soon, there will be twenty-three steps between us. A distance so short—and yet, it feels like an ocean.

"Goodnight, Matvey," I whisper, and cross back to my side of the dark, churning waters.