Page 22 of Hooked On Victor
She squinted at it.
An Orthodox church, onion domes rendered in meticulous pencil strokes, shaded to suggest gleaming gold without a drop of color. The lines were careful. Loving. Haunted.
Victor’s work. She didn’t need to ask.
The weight in her chest deepened.
At the foot of the bed, her clothes were folded.
Neat. Ordered.
She stared at them.
The sight felt like a punch she hadn’t braced for. It was such a small thing, but it spoke volumes in a voice she didn’t want to hear. Care she wasn’t sure she’d earned.
She bit her lip, looking away, blinking against the sting in her eyes.
With a short breath she let the sheet drop and reached for his t-shirt instead. It was slung over the chair carelessly, black and soft, the collar stretched from too many wears. She pulled it over her head, feeling the cotton settle against her skin like an embrace she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t refuse.
It fell to her mid-thigh, dwarfing her frame.
Smelled even more like him.
Salt. Soap. Sweat.
Memories.
She shut her eyes tight for a second before shaking her head and padding barefoot across the warped floorboards toward the door.
The kitchen was only a few steps away.
She paused in the doorway.
Victor was there.
Barefoot on the cold tile, shirtless as always, body a map of old scars and new bruises. He stood with one hand braced against the counter, the other cradling a chipped white mug. His hair was damp, darker at the roots, sticking up in places like he’d run fingers through it without thinking.
Steam drifted from the kettle on the stove.
The whole space smelled like coffee—dark, bitter, grounding.
When he heard the floor creak, he turned slowly.
Their eyes locked immediately.
He didn’t grin.
Didn’t smirk.
He just looked at her.
Steady. Measuring.
Like she was something precious he was afraid to break.
“Morning,” he said finally.
His voice was low and hoarse, thick with sleep and something rougher.
