Page 18 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

I’d made it my mission to get Dimitri to laugh before lunch.

We were side by side at the loom again, drowning in the mechanical roar of the factory, the churn and clatter of a dozen machines spinning green wool into government-approved rectangles.It smelled awful as usual—unless Dimitri leaned close, and then it just smelled like pine soap and the faintest trace of whatever cologne he used that probably hadn’t been available in stores since Brezhnev croaked.

“So, tell me, Dimitri,” I said, slicing through the noise, “what exactly do you think they do with all these blankets?I’ve seen this shade of green in three places: army barracks, prisons, and my grandmother’s sofa.”

He didn’t answer right away.Just kept threading the yarn like he was doing delicate surgery.My shoulder brushed his.I didn’t apologize.The music in my head was louder today—strings and something mournful, like Shostakovich with a hangover—but every time Dimitri looked at me, it crescendoed into something bold and dizzying.

“I think,” he said finally, “they stack them all in a warehouse until the weight collapses the building and buries a party official alive.That’s the five-year plan.”

I barked a laugh.Not a polite one, either—a real, surprised one.“You do have a sense of humor.”

He shrugged like it was nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.Victory.

“And here I thought you were some silent, brooding hero type,” I went on.“Tragic past, and a mysterious demeanor.The kind of man who says things like ‘don’t get close to me, I’m dangerous’ right before kissing someone senseless in the rain.”

“No rain in Leningrad this week,” he said.“Just sleet and moral decline.”

“God, marry me.”

That got a genuine laugh.Brief and soft and gone too soon—but it lit up his entire face, and I swear the music in my skull went orchestral.Grinning like a fool, I was drunk at the sight of it.I needed him to look at me again.I needed to keep talking.Keep joking.I’d never been so pathetically motivated in my life.

He glanced over, our hands brushing as we reached for the same thread.Static cracked against my skin.

“What now?”he asked.

“I just realized I’ve completely lost track of the war.Are we still at war with basic joy?”

Dimitri gave me a look.It was half a smirk, half something that made my stomach twist.“Yes.And you’re losing.”

“I never stood a chance.”

I was just about to lay on another ridiculous line—something about how if he kept smiling at me like that, I’d start seeing visions of Lenin applauding from the afterlife—when I saw movement from across the factory floor.

Vera.

She was talking to one of the supervisors, her hands gesturing briskly.She looked beautiful and smart and efficient, just like always.Then she turned—and her eyes landed on me.On us.

On Dimitri smiling.On me laughing.

Her brow furrowed.Just a tiny wrinkle between her eyes.Then she turned on her heel and walked off.

My chest tightened.

I’d done nothing wrong.I hadn’t touched him.But something about the look she gave me made my skin go cold.Like someone had caught me with my hand in a drawer labeledDo Not Touch.

I cleared my throat and looked down at the loom.Suddenly, I couldn’t remember what step came next.My hands moved, but they weren’t sure of themselves.

Dimitri noticed right away.“You’ve gone quiet,” he said.

I forced a smile.“I just realized we’re making blankets, not conversation.”

He didn’t press.Just nodded.The silence between us stretched.

A whistle blew—mercifully—and we both stood, stretching sore muscles and brushing wool fuzz from our overalls.

“Want to eat together?”Dimitri asked.

My heart flip-flopped like an excited puppy.I nodded too fast.“Yes.Of course.Definitely.”

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