ASYA'S POV
"Is marmalade okay?" Pasha asks, placing the jar on the counter.
I grip the hem of his T-shirt tighter as he turns to face me.
"I don't have anything else here, but I'll run to the store later and buy more food. We'll order some clothes for you, too. I rarely eat at home," he adds.
I tilt my head up, catching his gaze. "Thank you."
I'm wearing another of his T-shirts, nothing underneath—no panties, no bra. It feels strange, exposed in a way I've never experienced before.
When I woke up this morning, I had a fever again. Pasha wrapped me in a blanket, pulled me against his chest, and held me until my body stopped shaking. Hours—or maybe minutes—it felt endless. Later, he carried me into the bathroom, stayed while I used it, showered, brushed my teeth, wrapped me in a fluffy towel, and led me back to bed. I had stayed rooted, eyes glued to the bathroom door, until he rejoined me.
"Do you want coffee?" he asks.
I glance at the machine, feeling pathetically unsure. "I… don't know."
Pasha's palm moves along my back in soothing strokes. I take a deep breath and meet his eyes. There's no reproach, no pity, no pressure—only calm.
"Did you drink coffee before?"
"No," I whisper.
"How about tea? I think I have chamomile." He opens a cupboard, retrieves a metal container, and places it in front of me.
I stare at it.
He lifts my chin with a finger. "Did you like drinking tea, Asya?"
"Yes."
"Then let's assume you still do." He smiles. And it's a smile that seems to make the room warmer. "What did you like to eat for breakfast before?"
"Cereal with raisins," I say. "Sometimes with chocolate chunks instead."
"Good. I'll buy a few of those. Other Favorite dishes? Allergies?"
I sniff, blinking back tears. His questions are gentle, factual—they give me space to answer without panicking.
"No broccoli or green peas. Everything else was fine. No allergies," I say.
"Did you prefer takeout or cooking for yourself?"
"I liked cooking."
He nods. "Make me a list of ingredients. Tomorrow, you can cook. Today, we'll order something, but tomorrow, you can prepare one of your dishes."
My chest feels lighter.
"How about lasagna for tomorrow? I've never tried it. Did you like making it?"
I nod. Relief presses on my chest like the first breath after holding it underwater.
"Good. I'll grab my phone so you can make that list, but first—breakfast. Okay?"
"Okay."
I follow him around the kitchen as he puts the kettle on to boil and takes out the bread. He spreads marmalade with precise care, smoothing it evenly over each slice.
I notice the small scars on his knuckles, the fully inked arms, the contrast between his rough hands and the polished kitchen. I let my eyes wander over his strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a few scars on his forehead, more along his chin. Finally, I study his eyes. The colour is hidden, deep, unreadable, but they hold something… sad.
Pasha stops and looks down at me. Without thinking, I let go of his T-shirt and place my palm over his forearm. The muscles tense under my fingers, but he doesn't pull away. I lean into his warmth, seeking the comfort of his body.
A faint melody floats in from next door, the neighbour's TV too loud. Without realizing it, I hum along, letting the sound anchor me.