I take a bite of lettuce and consider how honest I want to be. “It’s just very different from what I’m used to. Everything here is so...” I search for the right word. “Perfect. Like a museum.”
“I suppose it might feel that way.” He pauses, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. “I didn’t exactly design it with comfort in mind. More like security.”
“It shows.” The comment slips out before I can stop it, and I immediately regret the sharpness in my tone. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“It was honest. There’s a difference.” He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “What would make you more comfortable?”
The question catches me unprepared. I expected him to be offended by my criticism, not interested in addressing it. “I don’t know. Maybe just...less formality? I feel like I’m going to break something expensive every time I move.”
“You won’t break anything. If you did, it could be replaced.”
“Easy for you to say. You probably don’t know what any of this stuff costs.”
His laughs transforms his entire face. “Actually, I know exactly what everything costs. I just care more about your comfort than my furniture.”
The admission warms something in my chest that I’ve been trying to keep cold. I focus on my salad to avoid meeting his gaze. “How are you handling the pregnancy cravings?”
“Pickle ice cream and peanut butter on everything.” I make a face. “What about you? Any weird food combinations you’re secretly addicted to though you aren’t pregnant.”
He seems to think if over for a moment. “When I was younger, I used to eat cereal for dinner at least three times a week. Yaroslav always said it was going to stunt my growth.”
The mention of his brother creates a shift in the conversation as something heavier settles between us. I’ve learned not to push when he brings up his family, but this time, I’m curious enough to risk it. “What was it like, growing up with just the two of you?”
He sets down his sandwich and leans back in his chair, considering the question. “Chaotic. We were both too young to be taking care of ourselves, but we figured it out. Yaroslav was better at the practical stuff—cooking, managing money, and making sure we went to school most of the time.”
“How old were you when your parents died?”
“I was twelve. Yaroslav was seventeen.” His voice gets quieter. “I don’t know how, but he kept us both out of the foster system.”
I try to imagine being twelve and suddenly orphaned, responsible for yourself and dependent on a brother who wasn’t even an adult himself. My own childhood had its challenges, but at least I had my mother until I was twenty-three. “That must have been terrifying.”
“It was, but we had each other, which made it manageable. Yaroslav always said we were a team, so as long as we stucktogether, we could handle anything.” His expression darkens. “He was right, until he wasn’t.”
The pain in his voice is raw and immediate, and I want to offer some kind of comfort. “I’m sorry. Losing him like that... I can’t imagine.”
“What about you? You mentioned your mother was sick.”
The change of subject is clearly intentional, but I don’t mind. Talking about my own loss feels easier than watching him struggle with his. “Stomach cancer, three years ago. It was fast and brutal, from diagnosis to funeral in eight months.”
His eyes reflect sympathy. “That’s why you were working at the club?”
I nod, pushing lettuce around my plate. “Insurance didn’t cover everything, and the bills kept coming even after she died. I was working two jobs for a while, trying to stay afloat.”
“And your father left after all that? Sounds like a piece of shit.”
I grimace. “David Clyde, sleazy car salesman, left us when I was five, actually. One day he was there, the next day he wasn’t. My mom never wanted to talk about it, so I stopped asking.”
Nikandr’s expression hardens. “He just left? No explanation or anything?”
I nod. “Just a note on the fridge. Some men aren’t built for responsibility, though he seems to manage just fine with his new family. My mom was better off without him, even if things were harder financially.”
He frowns hard enough to make grooves appear at the sides of his mouth. “Still, when she died, and he knew you were alone,he should have stepped up. You shouldn’t have had to handle all that alone.”
The statement is simple, but something in his tone makes my chest tighten. “I managed. I’m still managing.”
“You don’t have to anymore.”
The words are loaded with implications, but I let them pass without reacting. I take a sip of water to gain time to think of a response that doesn’t reveal how much his offer tempts me.