Tell me again

by abbym058

Summary:

Mal kisses her like she’s glass.
Aleksander breaks her like he’s thirsty.

Notes:

… please read the tags 🥲

Chapter 1

Present

"So I was thinking we could do something together tonight..." Alina began, managing to force a smile.

"I mean, just the two of us," she added, unable to maintain eye contact for more than a second at a time.

 

Mal paused, the wheels in his mind obviously turning. He took a gulp of his beer—an excuse to casually look away.

"What did you have in mind?"

He folded his arms on the small table, gaze still forward as he watched their friends on the dance floor.

 

"Uh, maybe we could do dinner by that sushi place—"

Mal turned to her with a smirk. "You mean the place I've been trying to get you to go for months?" He leaned back against the leather upholstery of the booth.

 

Alina could feel herself blushing. "That one."

She rested her head against the chair, shortening the distance between them.

"I want to try something new, you know... with you."

 

She made her voice low and coy—the way she knew he liked. He visibly gulped, interest making the brown of his eyes twinkle.

"Any new things in mind?" he breathed, and Alina tried not to gag at the smell of ethanol on his breath.

"Depends..." she played along, edging closer still, even as she sank her nails into her fisted palm.

 

Her boyfriend's eyes dropped to her mouth, then to her eyes, then back to her mouth. And for the briefest moment, she could no longer hear the low synth bass echoing in the background.

For a moment, she could almost remember what it was like before. When he was everything. When this was everything.

The weight of his full attention on her.

The warmth of his breath against her nose.

 

But then Ivan slammed something onto the table, and that moment ended.

 

"If you guys are gonna fuck, it'd be best to do it elsewhere. No fucking where you eat and all that," he muttered, as Genya snuck in behind him.

 

Mal rolled his eyes and chuckled, slinging his arm across Alina’s shoulder—and only clenching his jaw briefly after she flinched away from him.

 

And so the night went.

 

Alina, the perfect girlfriend. Who did a near-perfect job of not dissociating.

Who didn't bore anybody with her in-depth analysis or overexplanations of simple subjects.

Who laughed at jokes she didn't like. Gave smiles to people she resented. Who pressed her face against the shoulder of a man who had a predetermined code with everyone here just in case he ever needed to get away from her.

 

This was the life she had done everything to keep.

 

⸻

 

Aleksander didn't like this club very much. Yes, it belonged to him—just like three others on this strip alone. But if he was being quite honest, he didn't like any of these clubs anyway.

A mass of sweaty bodies grinding against each other wasn't as appealing as they made it out to be. It never had been.

 

And he knew the manner in which he had acquired this club in particular had been out of sheer spite. Petulant,  taking something just because he could. Just because he wanted.

 

Not unlike the very thing he was about to do as he carefully wove his way through the club and toward the bathroom stalls.

 

At least they're clean.

 

He waited for her to make it a few steps closer before picking up his pace, backing her into the stall with just enough time to snap the latch shut.

 

"What are you—?"

 

He gripped her by the back of the neck in one smooth motion, a thumb across her throat in warning.

He looked her up and down, loving the way she squirmed under his appraisal.

 

"My shirt," he stated.

 

She peered up at him—a good girl—awaiting permission to speak. He tilted his head to the side, eyebrows raised, giving it.

 

"I was overdressed," she muttered in response—clipped, bratty.

 

"Take it off."

Only his furrowed brows betrayed his need.

 

She did as she was told. What he thought was a simple white button-down and a black skirt slowly morphed into a skintight black corset dress as she divested herself of his shirt.

 

"Quite the slut, aren't you?" he mused absentmindedly, taking in the way her breasts sat above the absolutely devastating neckline.

 

She brought out the big guns. And no small part of him was infuriated that she thought to let anybody else see her like this.

 

"What the fuck were you doing in this?" he demanded, relishing the way her breath hitched.

"I—" she began.

"I don't wanna hear it, actually," he snapped, cutting her off.

 

He ran his fingers above the boned top, skimming the flesh of her cleavage.

He would never understand why it remained a source of insecurity. Why she hid herself.

 

He frowned.

 

"Did you get all dressed up like this for him?" 

 

"What a waste, hmm? Alinochka?"

He stroked his thumb against her lips, smudging her perfect red lipstick.

 

He lost himself in thought, contemplating whether to fuck her mouth, or her cunt first. Or maybe her tits. So many options. So little time.

 

"On your knees, princess," Aleksander instructed—too gently.

 

Alina dropped to the dirty floor. Pavlovian.

 

"Pretty little whore, in her pretty little dress, with her pretty red lips," he muttered, pressing the full weight of his attention on her, a crooked index finger tilting her chin up to him.

 

"You're wasted on him, milaya."

 

He unbuckled his belt, precum already gathered just by the sight of her—

Her doe eyes saucer-wide, her mouth open, ready and waiting.

 

⸻

 

Even after all this time, Alina still gags. Not because she needs to. But because some part of her likes the way he slows down, no matter how rough he was going, just to pet her hair and ask,

"Too big for you, princess?"

 

She likes it even more when he strokes her cheek, bunches his fist in her curls, face the epitome of condescension, a sneer on his lips as she nods.

 

Because when he says:

"Do I look like I fucking care?"

and snaps his hips hard enough to make her eyes water—

Every. Single. Time. She gets wetter than she ever thought possible.

 

⸻

 

His cum is a mess, dripping down her legs.

 

Her hair is a halo of coils and frizz, her pretty little gold claw clip split in half on the floor.

Her cheap little corset dress is cinched at the waist, her breasts on display with evidence of him smeared across them.

 

She sits in his lap, head lolling to the side, his arm under one shoulder the only thing supporting her as her eyes droop.

 

He frowns. Snaps a picture of her debauched state—face and all. She doesn't protest anymore.

 

"A trophy," he mutters.

She rolls her eyes. "Fucking sociopath," her words slurred by exhaustion.

 

He mock gasps, affronted by her behavior. Considers culling it with immediate retribution. Thinks better of it. She can barely stand. He'll save the lesson for later.

 

She face-plants against his chest.

 

"You ruined my dress," she mumbles into his neck. Smells like him. Smells like home.

 

"I'll buy you a better one."

 

"I'll have you know I paid thirty dollars for this dress," she frowns.

 

He laughs then. And Alina hates how the pride blooms warm in her chest at that—making him laugh, even if it's at her expense.

 

He strokes a hand absentmindedly down her back—tenderly, she thinks. And this might be the worst part of all.

 

Not when he's cruel and fucks her apart while degrading her. No, it's this. When he's gentle.

It’s almost unbearable.

 

"I can't explain this away," she whispers.

 

He strokes circles on her back. "I'll have Botkin pick you up."

 

"But the party—"

 

"I'll take care of it." And the certainty, the authority in his voice has her squirming. And by the way he tenses, he notices.

 

He pulls her back then to examine her face.

Loves what he finds. Ruined makeup. Free hair.

 

He runs his finger over her lips as he reaches into his shirt (still fully dressed) and hands her a folded bunch of hundred-dollar bills.

 

She knows why he does this. He's really committed to the bit tonight.

 

But she smiles at him—saccharine, sweet.

"Was I good?"

 

He smirks. "Meh."

She bats his hand away as he tugs on a curl.

 

"For the dress," he adds as he kisses the spot below her ear.

 

"I told you it doesn't cost that much," she protests, full lips forming that pretty little pout that laces his thoughts with filth.

 

"Hm," he hums, trailing kisses to the tops of her shoulder.

 

He stands with her then, places her on wobbly feet, dresses her, and sends her on her way.

 

⸻

 

"Have you seen Alina?" Mal turns to question his best friend.

Aleksander shrugs.

 

He watches his friend furrow his brows—almost imperceptibly. Jaws working. This is Mal allowing himself to feel angry, if only for a moment, before he shakes the thought away.

As if to say: what's the point?

 

A few moments later, Aleksander's phone chirps:

"Home."

 

He counts the minutes, for no particular reason, until a similar message pings Mal’s phone:

"So sorry. Family emergency. Had to leave."

 

Aleksander smiles to himself.

Chapter 2

Summary:

If you had asked Aleksander Morozova to describe the Starkov girl, he would have started with easy.

Aleksander

1 year, 2 days before 

“I don’t like liars,” he’d bitten out.

 

It was a wedding. Too fuzzy now to remember the details—except for the fact that her in yellow was uncalled for. Distracting. He couldn’t look away.

 

“And I lie?” she’d challenged, bitter.

 

“You pretend,” he said. “That’s worse.”

 

She laughed then. Loud. Unrestrained.

 

“And you don’t?”

 

She didn’t wait for his answer. She never did—not when she’d struck a nerve. She just stormed off, the way she always did, and Aleksander was left standing in the middle of the reception hall, reeling.

 

Later, he would remember the laugh. Not the dress. Not the fight. Just the way it sounded—before she started pretending. Before she started becoming this version of herself that clung like a bruise.

 

She wasn’t pretending anymore.

This was just who she was.

And somehow, that made it worse.

 

 

 

 

⸻

 

6 months, 2 weeks, 5 days before

⸻

 

Mal handed him a slice of cake.

 

Didn’t say what it was. Didn’t explain.

 

Just passed it across the table like a peace offering, some vague shrug of a birthday gift. They didn’t really talk about birthdays anymore. Aleksander didn’t like gifts. Never had.

 

Still, he took it.

 

Didn’t even ask who made it.

Didn’t need to.

 

It hit him on the second bite. Burnt sugar. Warm spice. Honey so deep it tasted like memory.

 

Medovik.

 

He hadn’t tasted it since he was a child. And this was perfect—an exact replica. Down to the crisp outer edge of the softened biscuit layers. Down to the hint of sour cream in the frosting. Down to the part of himself he’d buried long ago.

 

Mal didn’t bake.

 

And the girl wasn’t at the party.

 

But he knew. He knew.

 

And that made it worse.

⸻

 

 

6 months, 2 weeks, 3 days before

If you had asked Aleksander Morozova to describe the Starkov girl, he would’ve started with easy.

 

Easy to fluster. Easy to please. Easy to fuck.

 

With those wide eyes that always seemed to ask do you like me?, she reeked of desperation. It was a miracle Mal had survived nine months with her. When he’d finally come to his senses, Aleksander expected the relationship to end.

 

But it hadn’t.

Mal had gone to break up with her and came back three hours later more committed than ever.

 

Aleksander couldn’t make sense of it.

Had she cried?

Begged?

Gotten on her knees?

 

She always did.

She always tried.

 

He hated that.

 

So he went to see for himself. To make her answer for whatever emotional con she’d pulled this time.

 

He didn’t knock. Just opened the door like he owned it.

 

She was in the kitchen. Back turned. Stirring something that smelled like a trap.

 

The scent hit him before she did.

 

Honey. Sugar. Spice.

Medovik.

 

He stopped cold.

 

There it was. The honey cake. Sitting on the counter. Unfrosted. Still warm.

 

Her hands were trembling.

 

“Was it a joke?” he asked, stepping closer. “Some sad little sympathy dessert?”

 

She didn’t turn around.

 

“It wasn’t for you.”

 

“No?” His voice dropped. “Then why did Mal bring me a slice yesterday that tasted exactly like this?”

 

She said nothing.

 

“You didn’t even give it to me yourself.” He kept his voice steady. “Sent it through someone else like a fucking postcard. Like I wouldn’t know.”

 

Still, she said nothing.

 

“You made my cake. You didn’t tell me. You just sat there and let me eat it like it meant nothing.”

 

And that was what did it. Not the cake.

Not the smell.

Not the memory.

 

The silence.

 

She’d recreated something she had no right to know. No permission. No invitation.

 

That was the violation. The intimacy of it.

 

“You’re just desperate,” he bit out. Too loud. Too sharp.

 

But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. Didn’t ask for forgiveness.

 

She just blinked. Swallowed. Stayed silent.

 

He hated that more.

 

“You act so fucking innocent,” he hissed. “So quiet. So grateful. But I see you.”

 

She stepped back. He stepped in.

 

Her eyes flicked up to his then—steady. Unafraid. It was worse than silence.

 

“You thought I wouldn’t recognize it? The cake? You thought I wouldn’t taste you in it?”

 

Her mouth opened. Then closed again.

 

He laughed—short. Humorless.

 

“You’re a coward, Starkov.”

 

“You do all this caring in secret and pretend it’s not your fault when people fall apart around you.”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Don’t.” He snapped. “Don’t fucking deny it.”

 

Her back hit the wall. Hands braced like she might push off and flee. She looked like prey. But she wasn’t running.

 

“I see you.”

 

She didn’t even flinch.

 

“You can’t hide from me.”

 

And then—

 

He dragged his hand between her thighs.

 

No warning. No apology.

 

Two fingers hooked beneath the waistband of her thin cotton shorts, pressing into heat, into slick, into proof.

 

She gasped—sharp. Like it hurt.

 

He didn’t stop.

 

He curled his fingers. Drew them out. Held them up to the light streaming through the window.

 

“Dripping,” he murmured. “You’re soaked.”

 

“Want me to believe that’s fear?”

A beat. 

“Your pussy says otherwise.”

 

Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide. But not surprised.

 

He hated that too.

 

“You think if you stay quiet long enough, I’ll forget what you are?”

 

“You think if you smile sweetly, bake a cake, send it through someone else’s hands—”

 

She gasped. Finally. And there it was.

 

“You didn’t think I’d know it was you?” he snarled. “You didn’t think I’d recognize the taste?”

 

He backed away before she could answer.

Her chest was rising fast. Too fast.

She looked like she might shatter.

 

She didn’t move. Didn’t follow. Didn’t say a word.

But her stillness screamed louder than anything else in the room.

 

“I’ll see you soon,” he said quietly.

 

And then he left.

Sticky fingers. Quiet door. No apologies.

 

And behind him, she stayed standing.

A quiet thing. A ruin of his own making

____

Time, with Alina was never linear. Never stayed where it belonged.

So later, he wouldn’t know if he remembered it from that night, or from every night after.

Notes:

Love lore, flashbacks, time jumps all of it 😩

Chapter 3

Alina
About a year ago

“You absolutely have to wear it!” Genya’s entire face was lit up by a smile that stretched from ear to ear. She bounced on her feet, hands clasped beneath her chin as she ogled Alina.

 

Alina shook out her hands—maybe that would get rid of the nerves, the excitement, the butterflies? She spun around to face the standing mirror against Genya’s bedroom door.

 

“I mean it’s nice—” she began, smoothing her hands down the satin ruching that bisected her waist and extended up to her left shoulder. It was a… dress. It was beautiful—no really, it was. But it was just so… yellow.

 

“Breakfast burritos are nice, ’Lina.” Genya countered, exasperated. 

 

Alina startled as Genya teleported across the room to plant her hands firmly on her shoulders and peer into the mirror beside her. “This dress is exquisite.”

 

“I mean, Gen,” Alina sighed. “It’s so bright…”

 

Her voice trailed off. Unlike the whopping eight dresses she’d tried on over the last two hours, she had no complaints about necklines, hem lengths, or how she’d be flashing people because how do you expect me to not wear a bra, Gen?

 

The only real issue was how bright it was.

 

Alina was mesmerized by the fabric—a soft satin that somehow held its structure well enough to let the folds gathered over her right shoulder cascade back down over her bust, cinch at her waist in pleats, then fan out over her hip like sun rays. It stopped mid-calf, which was acceptable. Alina liked to say she was average height for women globally. In reality, she was a little vertically challenged. The dress was perfect. But it was also loud. She had no proof of that, just a gut feeling. She didn’t wear yellow. Neutrals, sure. Pastels, always. But yellow?

 

“It’s a garden wedding!” Genya groaned, already gathering Alina’s inky black waves, no doubt plotting an updo. “In the summer! You’re supposed to look bright.”

 

“Okay fair, but I don’t think I’m supposed to look like a banana,” she muttered.

 

Genya’s lip twitched, and she pouted to compensate—one hand still holding up Alina’s hair as she dropped her chin onto her shoulder. “You look like the sun.”

 

Alina huffed a small laugh, tore her scrutiny away from the dress, and met Genya’s eyes in the mirror. Genya smiled. She knew the decision was already made.

_____

 

Of course Alina had worn the dress. When she started making excuses like, “But Gen,what if bees…?” even she could recognize she was grasping at straws. In truth, she’d seen the dress herself first. Clicked on it once to see how it looked on the model, then again to zoom in until all that filled the screen of her iPad was yellow with exquisite detailing—folds, shadows, depth. So much personality. She knew she’d talk herself out of it. That’s why it was the first thing she ever bought using the “buy now” button.

 

She hadn’t meant for Genya to see it. Because she knew what Genya would say. The same thing Alina had felt the first time she saw it: it was perfect.

 

She couldn’t understand why that scared her so much.

 

It didn’t help that the dress sat on her body like nobody’s business. Plenty of clothes looked beautiful. This one felt beautiful.

 

She didn’t wear it because she felt less scared or self-conscious an hour later. Not after Genya had done her makeup. She wore it despite the tachycardia, sweaty palms, and voices. Maybe that counted for something.

___

By the time Genya had done her hair, Zoya her makeup, and she had done Zoya’s makeup and Nina’s hair in return, Alina’s decision was made. 

____

Summer was never kind, not even in Os Alta. Alina had forgotten about the smothering, wet heat after days spent in the AC at Genya’s parents’ estate. She worried she might sweat through her makeup—but mentally shrugged. Zoya’s makeup expertise could outclass any natural phenomenon.

 

They sat on the left—Nadia’s side, though they knew both brides.

 

“At this point I’m pretty sure I’ll melt before they get through the vows,” Zoya muttered to her right, waving a periwinkle fan with the grace of a bored royal. Her eyes flicked toward Alina once. Didn’t say anything, but her fan paused mid-sweep.

 

To her left, Genya snickered—audible even over the quartet’s rendition of Wicked Games.

 

Ahead, beneath an arch of dangling aquamarine wisteria, Nadia and Tamar stood with interlocked fingers, joy pulsing from them like light. Waves echoed from the cliffside shore just beyond. The officiant said something. They kissed. Alina smiled. Swallowed a lump in her throat. Blinked quickly. Smiled wider and crinkled the corners of her eyes just so.

___

Alina hated weddings. Funerals, at least, had the decency to bring grief you didn’t need to rename.

___

In the reception hall bathroom, the girls touched up their makeup. Alina tried to hold her own gaze. Two glasses of champagne had definitely helped. But now her reflection blurred at the edges.

 

She didn’t examine it too long. Zoya posed in her baby blue backless gown while Nina’s phone flashed. Then Nina pulled Alina into frame.

 

“Somebody’s giggling!” Nina chirped. “How much did they give you to drink?”

 

Flash.

 

“Oh get off, Zenik,” Zoya rolled her eyes—just as Nina snapped again. Aphrodite herself.

 

“She’s been smiling that secret smile since the moment she put on that dress.”

 

“I was not!” Alina blurted, then dissolved into giggles.

 

“As you should!” Nina grinned.

 

“You look—”
“Hot!” Zoya declared, as Nina added, “Happy!”

____

 

Alina was happy. Even before the drinks.

 

She hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to Nadia since the ceremony, so when she spotted her heading to the bathroom, Alina snuck out from her table to follow.

 

“Nadia!” she squealed, hugging her for the first time in months.

“Lina!” Nadia beamed. “I’m so, so glad you came.”

“You look stunning, Nads.”

“And yourself? You know it’s my wedding, right?”

 

Alina gasped dramatically.

“Where are your triplets? Nadia began “Pretty sure I saw Zoya fanning herself like a beleaguered Victorian widow.”

 

“Oh, you know. Gossiping. People-watching. The usual.”

 

They yapped through Nadia’s bathroom break—about makeup tricks Zoya had taught her, the Os Alta heat, and everything Alina had missed while Nadia had been busy doing grown-up things.

 

“Okay, I really have to get back to this party. It’s like… mine or whatever.” Nadia chuckled.

 

Alina snorted. “Yeah no, they’re definitely waiting on you.”

 

They hugged again.

 

“Tell Tamar I said to remember what we talked about. First to marry, first to give me grandchildren.” Alina added softly, with a smile she knew was too tired by now. 

 

Nadia scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll tell my wife we need to become parents tonight.”

 

Alina slapped a hand over her ears. “Saints, why would I need to know the details of your marital relations, child?”

 

Laughter. And then, turning back toward the reception, Nadia added, “Oh, Mal was asking for you.”

 

No, Alina’s heart absolutely did not skip a beat.

___

 

She found herself on the garden terrace. It enough that everyone was drunk, dancing, or both. The bass thudded faintly below, distant enough to let her finally relax her cheeks.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy for her friends. She was just tired. Worn down.

 

It cost her—the smiles, the politeness, the hilarity. It made her question whether she was even a good friend.

 

She’d had to drag herself from bed. Practice her wedding face in the mirror. Remind herself people don’t believe you’re smiling if your eyes are half-shuttered.

 

Two drinks was her cap. Fun ‘Lina danced and laughed. She didn’t have to say “I have to go upstairs for a bit—just checking on things, I’ll be back in 30–45 minutes. I’ve turned on my location. Call me if anything happens.”

She simply said “I’ll be right back”. Even if she didn’t mean it. 

___

The air shifted. Bonfire smoke replaced by sandalwood, cedar, mint.

 

He found her first.

 

“You’re awfully close to the edge of that balcony,” he muttered.

 

He always did that. Approached her like she might chew her own leg off just to escape.

 

He stood beside her. Alina kept her gaze forward. Inhale. Exhale. He’s just a person.

 

“Malyen never mentioned you were actively trying to kill yourself,” he added.

 

She twisted toward him, confused. He pointed at the floor.

 

She hadn’t seen the three or so half-smoked cigarettes by her feet.

 

“I didn’t see—”

“Yeah, you skipped the glasses. That explains a lot.” Dark brows furrowed over darker eyes only briefly. 

“Like what?” Her voice always cracked with him.

 

He met her eyes, then dragged his gaze down her body. She shifted under it.

 

He smirked, hand sliding into the pocket of his black slacks.

“Did Malyen approve of this dress?”

 

She knew what he was doing. Baiting her. And she regretted every moment she ever mentioned Mal.

 

“Why don’t you just tell him, then?” she snapped, stepping back slightly. She conceded space. She needed to breathe. 

 

Aleksander’s smile twisted. “And do your job for you?”

 

“So you’re just going to keep bringing it up?” She hated the way the words tumbled out. 

 

She folded her arms. Still couldn’t understand why liking Mal—his friend—was a problem. All she’d said was, “I think I’ve met him.” Mal had hugged her. Aleksander had been weird ever since.

 

“You never told me about Keramzin.”

 

“I don’t tell anyone about Keramzin.”

 

She immediately regretted it. She knew well enough now to know when she had started a timer. When she had dropped a weight.

 

“Aleks” she tried. “It’s not like that. It’s not”

Of course Aleksander wasn’t just anyone. 

 

“It’s not like that,” he echoed, the muscles of his jaw working. 

Except that it was.

But of the 10 things there were to know about Alina, the place where she was raised was barely a thing at all. There was no place for the shadow slinking away in a dark corner of her mind, taunting laughter trailing behind. 

“I don’t like liars,” he said. A blade made for her. Crafted expertly.

She blinked. “And I lie?”

 

“You pretend,” he said. “That’s worse.”

Her spine snapped straight. There was a lump in her throat. She ignored it.

 

“And you don’t?” Her voice cracked, again. 

 

That should’ve ended it. But it didn’t.

 

Because when she turned away—when she stormed off, as he’d tell it—her face was burning. Not from shame. But from how his eyes had dragged down her dress like it offended him. How his face had twisted. Even after everything. 

____

Alina would tell herself it happened at the wedding. But sometimes she thought it had happened later. Or always. Or maybe it was still happening.

____

She found Mal. Danced harder. Laughed louder. Pretended it didn’t matter. Because this was a wedding. 

 

But later something in her stilled. Maybe that was the moment she stopped trying to be beautiful.

 

Maybe that was the moment she started trying to be harmless instead.

____

 

 

Notes:

It was a good wedding. A great wedding even. Wait, what wedding. — Alina, probably

Chapter 4

Summary:

Smut time again 😩

Notes:

The dove has received 20 Mins of CPR. There was no ROSC.

Present

She's home by seven.

 

Mal is already half-asleep on the couch, the TV flickering faintly across the wall. His feet are kicked up on the armrest, one sock halfway off, remote nowhere in sight. A paper bag rests on the coffee table — slightly crumpled, slightly damp.

 

She doesn't say anything at first. Just closes the door quietly behind her and toes off her shoes.

 

"I waited up," he mumbles, not opening his eyes. "Kind of."

 

Alina smiles faintly and walks over to the bag.

 

Inside: a pastry. The one she'd pointed at through the café glass three days ago, laughing as she said she didn't need it but secretly hoping he'd remember.

 

It's slightly squished. Probably rode around in his backpack all day.

 

Still. It's warm enough. Sweet.

 

He sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. "I was gonna light the stupid candle and everything. Make it nice."

 

"I would've liked that."

 

"You still can," he says, yawning. "I mean, we still can."

 

She watches him try to rally — trying to shake off the day, trying to pretend he's not bone-deep tired, trying to stay present. For her.

 

It's not the effort that bothers her. It's how much it takes.

 

"You should go to bed," she says gently. "You've got an early morning."

 

Mal groans and flops back down. "You sure? I can stay up a little longer. Maybe we could—"

 

"It's okay," she interrupts. "Go sleep."

 

He nods. "Okay. But save me half."

 

She promises she will.

 

He disappears into the bedroom, door creaking shut behind him.

 

⸻

 

She stands in the kitchen a moment longer.

 

Then reaches for her phone.

 

A new message from Zoya: Come out. Just drinks. Just us.

 

She hesitates.

 

Then grabs her jacket, keys, and—almost as an afterthought—fixes her lipstick in the hallway mirror.

 

She doesn't text him.

 

She doesn't need to.

 

____

 

 

It's not the music that makes her head swim.

 

Not the reek of sweat and Red Bull seeping in through the cracked window, or the sharp tang of vodka that still lingers on her breath. It's not even the speed—though they're parked on a hill, the backseat pressed against the slant of the earth like it's trying to tip her straight into hell.

 

It's him.

 

The way Aleksander's thigh shifts between hers as he leans forward to slam the car door shut behind them. The sound is final. Indulgent. Punishment disguised as mercy.

 

"Wait—" she starts, but it comes out wrong. Too breathy. Too soft.

 

He doesn't wait.

 

She barely registers the cold bite of his rings on her skin before her dress is hiked to her hips and her panties are shoved aside—more aggression than finesse. She gasps, but he swallows it, mouth on hers like he wants to devour her into silence.

 

"Still pretending?" he mutters darkly, dragging his mouth along the edge of her jaw. "Or are you going to act like a good girl now?"

 

Her laugh is a little broken. "That depends. You planning to fuck me like I am one?"

 

He stills.

 

Then: one hand braced above her shoulder, the other already between her thighs, fingers sliding cruelly slow through slick.

 

"You're soaked," he says flatly. "And you expect me to believe you don't do this often?"

 

"I don't," she says—because she doesn't. Not like this. Not with anyone else. Not with someone who looks at her like this is an inconvenience. A favor.

 

Aleksander exhales through his nose like the sound alone is enough to make him furious.

 

"You're lying, again."

 

He pushes in, two fingers deep, knuckles brushing the wet silk of her underwear.

 

She chokes on a moan. "Fuck—"

 

"Language." He curls his fingers.

 

She arches into him, thighs twitching. "Please."

 

"There it is." He doesn't stop. "The one thing you're good at. Begging."

 

Her lip trembles, but she bites it down, eyes half-lidded.

 

"I thought you liked it when I beg."

 

"I like it quiet."

 

He presses his palm against her, lets his thumb brush over her clit just once—barely a whisper—and she almost sobs.

 

It makes something in him crack.

 

He yanks his hand away. Unzips his slacks.

 

She whines at the loss, reaching instinctively—but he pins her wrist to the car door with one hand and holds her in place with his knee, thigh shoved beneath her ass to angle her just where he wants.

 

"Don't move," he warns.

 

She doesn't.

 

Not when he lines himself up. Not when he thrusts in all at once. Not even when her breath catches so sharp in her throat she forgets how to breathe.

 

The car rocks on its axles.

 

And then again.

 

And then again.

 

He doesn't kiss her this time. Doesn't whisper anything sweet. Just fucks her like she asked for it. Like she earned this. Like she's nothing but slick heat and wreckage.

 

"Milaya," he mutters at some point, so soft she thinks she imagined it.

 

But she hadn't.

 

Because he stiffens when he says it. Because she clenches around him like it's muscle memory. Because his hand comes down against the side of her thigh hard enough to sting.

 

"Don't do that," he snarls.

 

She blinks up at him, teary and glassy and too far gone.

 

"You called me—"

 

"I know what I said."

 

She wants to cry. She wants to laugh. She wants to claw him open and see if her name is buried somewhere under his ribs.

 

Instead, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and says, "Then say it again."

 

And Aleksander—terrible, ruined thing that he is—does.

 

⸻

 

They collapse into the backseat, a tangle of limbs and open wounds, like two people who should have never touched in the first place.

 

She thinks they're done.

 

They're not.

 

Because just when the silence begins to settle—just when she thinks she might be able to breathe again—he tries to flatten her against the dashboard.

 

It's beyond cliché, she thinks.

 

She's not nearly as drunk as she pretends to be. Can still register the headache pounding at her temples, perfectly in time with the nauseating EDM seeping from the club's entrance behind them. Can still make out the sour mix of sweat, alcohol, and cigarettes clinging to her skin like a second, unwashed layer.

 

And yet, somehow, it's not the alcohol that dulls everything else—it's him. It's the way she has to crane her neck back until electricity lances down her spine.

 

It's worth it, though. Just to see the way he looks at her.

 

The furrow of his brows. The grim set of his mouth—resignation. But beneath it all, the way his pupils are blown wide. And yes, the car is dark, windows fogged, night bleeding in through tinted glass—but she'd like to think it's more than shadows. That it's want. That it's messy, reluctant desire. That he wants her even half as much as she wants him now.

 

So she grabs a fistful of his cashmere sweater (who even wears something like this here?), stretches up on her toes, and captures his lower lip.

 

Soft—so soft. Whiskey and cinnamon and him. She tugs on it with her teeth, eyes searching the black abyss of his own. The way his hand flexes on her hip is the only tell before his grip turns bruising.

 

She rocks back on her heels, unsteady. Breathing shallow. Heartbeat a staccato against her ribs.

 

It's so fucking cliché.

 

Aleksander gives her one last, unreadable look before he proceeds to fuck her in the backseat of her car.

 

_____

 

Nina squeezes her eyes shut, moaning theatrically as she drags her fork through the last wedge of pie.

 

"Now that's a good pie," she groans, chewing with reverence. "Honestly, Alina—this might be your best yet."

 

Alina smiles faintly, poking at the crust on her plate. She doesn't correct her.

 

Aleksander notices.

 

⸻

 

Later, gathered around the firepit out back—flames crackling, bottle caps hissing in the grass—the topic resurfaces.

 

"So?" Nina presses, legs draped over Matthias's lap. "What's in it? Almond extract? Coconut oil? Black magic?"

 

Alina blinks at her. She can feel the weight of his stare, low and heavy from across the circle.

 

"I didn't make it."

 

Nina grins. "Oh come on. I promise not to share your super top-secret, world-ending pie recipe."

 

She gestures toward Matthias. "Not even with the cadet."

 

Matthias rolls his eyes and tugs her closer.

 

Alina exhales. "I don't bake anymore."

 

That earns a pause.

 

Zoya scoffs. "Since when?"

 

Alina doesn't flinch. Just reaches for her wine, her smile polite and pointed. "I'll grab another bottle."

 

A flicker of movement—Aleksander's knife dragging too hard against the ceramic, shrieking faintly.

 

Fedyor lets out a low whistle. "Tragic."

 

"Fedyor," Ivan hisses.

 

"What? She delivered it like a monologue. I'm respecting the craft."

 

"No, it's fine," Alina says, voice steady. She doesn't look at anyone. "I guess I'm just done pretending sugar makes things sweeter."

 

Silence.

 

Then, softly:

"Some things don't need sweetening," Aleksander murmurs.

 

The following silence is ripe. She doesn't look at him. Doesn't respond.

 

Mal flexes his fingers against her upper arm. Genya's brow rises. Zoya cocks her head. Even David looks up.

 

The silence turns molten.

 

Fedyor clears his throat. "We, uh... I think there's ice cream in the freezer."

 

"No," Aleksander cuts in. Then, more gently: "It's fine. I'll handle dessert."

 

Alina rises, gathering two empty bottles of some obnoxiously expensive red from the table.

 

"And I'll top up."

 

"You good man!" Fedyor calls.

 

She giggles—quick, bright.

 

Aleksander's jaw ticks.

 

Fedyor half-rises. "Want help?"

 

Aleksander and Alina speak at the same time.

 

"She knows how the wines are arranged," he says.

 

"Down to the vintage," she adds—quietly, but not so quietly Zoya doesn't hear.

 

Her smile doesn't falter.

 

Neither does his.

 

She leaves first.

 

Aleksander follows, under the pretense of "getting dessert."

 

Nobody believes him.

 

⸻

A year and a half ago

She hadn't even had butter.

 

"You could use coconut oil," he said absently, glancing over her shoulder as she scrolled.

 

Alina rolled her eyes. "Of course you'd say that, Mr. Wellness."

 

"It's literally all I had growing up," he muttered.

 

"Sure," she teased, "And I bet your favorite cake is something that adds sugar to honey"

 

He stilled.

 

She looked up—and there it was. A flicker of something... almost boyish.

 

She'd seen it before. Once. In a photograph tucked behind a book in his office. A birthday party long ago. A cake. Too many candles. And him, in the middle of it all, eyes soft, mouth laughing.

 

She hadn't asked then.

But when the pie had come out—golden, cracked, dripping with honey—he'd stared at it like it hurt.

 

⸻

Present

The door to the wine cellar shuts behind them.

 

Aleksander doesn't speak at first.

 

Just breathes.

Too steady.

Too slow.

 

"You're playing a dangerous game," he says finally, voice low.

 

She brushes past him toward the back wall—where the glassware is neatly arranged above the temperature gauges—and pulls down a glass without needing to look.

 

"Am I?"

 

"You said you didn't want people to know."

 

"I didn't say anything," she shrugs. "But maybe you should've told your friends not to ask about dessert."

 

He stares at her.

"You're doing this on purpose."

 

She turns, leans against the counter.

"What gave it away?"

 

The silence sharpens.

 

"You think I won't drag you upstairs right now?"

 

She doesn't flinch.

 

"Then do it," she says softly.

 

That shuts him up.

 

Because they both know he won't.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not with them just on the other side of the door.

 

So she smiles—slow and terrible and victorious.

 

And says,

"Thought so."

 

____

 

Aleksander's brows knit as she heads for the door.

He knows the rhythm of it.

What happens if he brings up the kitchen.

The garden.

The room upstairs with a canopied bed and sheets that still smell like her, a year and six weeks later.

 

Silence—or something worse.

 

Something unspeakable.

 

Any victory he claims now is forfeit. Pyrrhic.

 

He grabs her wrist.

 

She's already rolling her eyes when she turns back to him.

"No, thank you."

 

He frowns. "I didn't offer you anything."

 

"Good."

______

The air shifts.

 

It always does with him.

Heavy. Inevitable. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

 

Aleksander's hand is still around her wrist, but his grip has loosened—thumb grazing bone.

 

"You always do this," he mutters.

 

"Do what?"

 

He doesn't answer.

Just looks at her like she's both the problem and the solution in the same breath.

 

She exhales, lips parting just slightly. "What do you want from me?"

 

His expression flickers. "I don't know anymore."

 

"Then let go."

 

But he doesn't. Not yet. Not until she leans in—not enough to kiss, just enough to be cruel.

 

"You should be better at this by now," she whispers.

 

His breath stutters. "You think I don't want to be?"

 

"I think," she says, stepping closer, "you want to pretend none of it mattered. That we can burn down what we were and sweep the ashes under your wine fridge."

 

He laughs—sharp, humorless.

 

"I think," she continues, "you're not half as good at pretending as you think you are."

 

He moves before she can finish—backing her into the wall, hand braced beside her head, the other still loose on her wrist.

 

His mouth hovers over hers.

 

"I want to be better," he says, quieter now. "But you don't make it easy."

 

"No," she breathes. "I don't."

 

And then—God help her—she kisses him.

 

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

 

It's the kind of kiss that bruises. That reopens wounds. That knows exactly where it hurts.

 

He shudders, groans low in his throat. His grip tightens. He turns them—pressing her into the stone ledge behind them, dragging his mouth to her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone.

 

"You still smell like the sheets," he says hoarsely. "I haven't changed them."

 

"You're disgusting."

 

"You left."

 

She doesn't reply. Just shoves her hand beneath his shirt, nails raking along his stomach.

 

"Say it," he demands.

 

"No."

 

"Say it."

 

She yanks at his belt. "Fuck you."

 

He laughs again—this time wrecked and wrecking. "You already did."

 

The belt comes loose. His hand is up her shirt, dragging across her skin like a man starved.

 

It's desperate.

 

It's always desperate.

 

She hooks her leg around his waist, pulls him flush.

 

"This is stupid," she gasps.

 

"Mm."

 

"You're still an asshole."

 

He bites her shoulder. "You love that."

 

She might.

 

She moans when he thrusts against her—rough, clothed, too much and not enough.

 

Their mouths meet again, messier now. Her hands in his hair. His on her thighs. The cellar so goddamn cold and their skin so hot it steams the air.

 

They've done this before.

 

On this floor.

Against that rack.

Once with her skirt bunched and his hand between her legs while she whispered his name into the hollow of his throat.

 

But this feels different.

 

More fractured.

 

More real.

 

He lifts her easily—settling her on the ledge. The stone is cold beneath her thighs, the contrast dizzying.

 

He drops to his knees.

 

"Still pretending?" she murmurs, breathless.

 

He doesn't answer with words.

 

Just pushes her panties aside and opens his mouth like prayer.

 

____

She gasps as his tongue finds her—slow, almost reverent. Like he's making penance with every stroke.

 

Her hands scrabble for purchase—his hair, the edge of the stone counter, anything. Her spine arches, the cold at her back stark against the heat building between her legs.

 

"Aleks," she breathes, and the name alone is a sin.

 

He growls at it—low and guttural—and doubles down, mouth relentless now, tongue circling cruelly, precisely.

 

She breaks first.

 

Not loudly—she never is—but with a stuttering moan, lips parted, body trembling. He doesn't stop when she comes. Doesn't even slow. Just pins her there with hands like shackles and drags her through it again.

 

And again.

 

Until she's clawing at him, shaking her head, blinking through tears. "Stop—God, stop—I can't—"

 

Only then does he rise—slow, purposeful, breath ragged as he braces a hand beside her head again.

 

She meets his gaze. Her lip trembles.

 

"You don't get to look at me like that," she whispers.

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like you still want to keep me."

 

A beat.

 

Then, quietly: "Maybe I never stopped."

 

She doesn't let herself believe it.

 

Instead, she reaches for his belt again.

 

"Then show me."

 

And this time—when he thrusts into her, hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, forehead resting against hers—it's not punishment. It's prayer.

 

____

 

On the car ride home, Mal mutters, "It's almost been a year, Lina."

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he's unsure if he's already lost the argument.

"You've got to make peace with Aleks. I've known him since we were eight."

Notes:

Yeah Mal is here too.

Chapter 5

1 year, 6 months, 3 weeks, 5 days ago

The first time they met

 

Aleksander had met her once before. At the Surgical Innovators Conference — two days ago.

 

Now, the eldest Lantsov — still the Chief by some cruel machination of the universe — introduced her as Alina.

Not Dr. Starkov, as her nametag had read at the conference.

And still read, in navy block letters stitched across the breast of her white coat:

 

ALINA STARKOV, MD

General Surgery

Emergency Medicine

 

Aleksander noted it — not aloud, of course. That brand of derangement was its own kind of merit.

No one chose both Gen Surg and Emergency unless they were trying to bleed out faster.

She had started the world's most clipped, contempt-laced tour of a hospital that still bore his fingerprints. These halls had seen him rise, once. Long before she'd ever thought of transferring here.

Because she must have transferred. Aleksander had only been gone four years.

He left before finishing residency — no regrets. Should've left earlier, honestly.

Mal had stayed longer. Finished his final year in Ketterdam — not unlike the youngest Lantsov, Nikolai.

But this girl?

No.

She was new.

Not an intern — the eyes were too sharp. The words, even sharper.

And mercurial enough to split her soul between two departments instead of just applying to a trauma surgery program like everyone else who craved chaos.

 

They walked in silence past the on-call rooms — the good-ish ones, the ones he'd once made infamous. Aleksander had been sitting too much lately: fifteen hours on a plane, three days of conferences, panel forums, handshake photo-ops.

He was wound tight.

Not as tight as her, though.
_____

He watched her with idle amusement — back straight, jaw set, pace efficient.

She didn't ask if he was tired.

Didn't offer water.

Didn't pretend to be impressed. Not by the floor, the layout, or the way people still whispered about his name.

 

She didn't like him.

 

She didn't pretend to like him.

 

Perfect.

 

"It's not much of a tour," he said finally, voice low and amused, "if you don't speak."

 

She didn't flinch.

Didn't break stride.

 

He saw her shoulders shift — not quite a reaction, not quite nothing.

Like she was cataloguing him.

Deciding what kind of problem he was.

 

He smirked.

He knew how these things ended.

 

They always started the same— clipped, cold, contemptuous—

and they always ended the same, too.

 

With someone sitting where they shouldn't. With someone's name said too soft.

 

⸻

 

By the time they got to the SICU, Aleksander decided he'd had enough.

 

"You know," he said, trailing behind her slightly, "most people would kill to do a personal tour for a keynote speaker."

 

Alina didn't look at him. She was staring through the glass at a patient chart on the monitor.

 

"I'm sorry. Murder is bad for business around these parts." Barely a mumble.

 

"Tragic," Aleksander murmured.

 

She didn't turn. Her eyes skimmed the patient data like it was armor.

 

Then: "Let me guess," she began, voice even, "child prodigy. Med school in your teens. Chief resident while being the youngest in your year. All to be recruited by the private sector before you could finish."

 

Aleksander raised a brow, amused. "Impressive. You know everyone's LinkedIn before letting them into your hospital?"

 

That got her to turn. Cool gaze. "No. Just yours."

Beat.

"So it wasn't much of a guess, then," he continued, savoring the way she shifted on her feet. "Rote memorization. Not so elegant as far as intelligence goes."

 

He sipped from the tall cup of black coffee one of the admins had handed him earlier— the cracken with the girlish smile.

 

Alina made it a point not to look at the deliberate way he pressed his full mouth to the lid and gulped.

"I wanted to know who exactly they dragged back here with a bow on his neck and called an innovator."

 

⸻
In the elevator ride down to the pit, they were plastered against the back wall in a car four rows deep.

 

Aleksander had stopped complaining— finally — so they stood in silence.

 

From somewhere in the middle, Alina heard someone speak.

It sounded like Fedyor.

She'd know his gruff mutter anywhere.

"Morozova's new rollout shaved five minutes off intubation. Man practically builds hospitals in his sleep."

 

Another voice joined in.

 

"Didn't he sell his first patent at twenty-eight? Some multi-access laparoscopic rig? Got a private equity stake from the Russians before the ink dried."

 

Laughter. A low, reverent kind of gloating.

 

Alina didn't say a word. But she was listening.

Because the thing was, Dr. Morozova wasn't a surgeon anymore.

He was a brand.

A product. A press release.

And somehow, everyone forgot that he bailed on his training before the real work began.

Before the grief.

The rot.

The nights you shake too hard to suture.

⸻

The day lasted 76 hours.

By the time she stepped out of the OR, the smell of electrocautery and burning flesh had made a home on her skin. Her scrubs were soaked through with sweat.

She opened the call room door expecting it to be empty— only to find him there.

One arm draped over the armrest, eyes on his phone. Aleksander looked up.

"You're early."

"I'm always early."

It'd been three days. Maybe she was late.

His upper lip ticked. "And always charming."

She sighed and sat anyway — not next to him, but near enough to suggest she was too tired to care.

 

"You don't like me," Aleksander said, conversational. "That's fine. But let me guess — it's not personal. It's professional."

 

She said nothing.

 

"You think I didn't earn it."

 

At that, she looked at him. For once, no sarcasm.

 

"You left."

 

"I was offered more somewhere else."

 

"And the rest of us stayed."

He tilted his head. "You think sacrifice makes you better?"

 

"No," she said. "But it means I know what it costs."

 

Aleksander didn’t reply. Just looked at her — for a second too long. Because they all knew what it cost.

That was never the question.

The real question was how to survive it.

 

But he didn’t say that.

 

He tucked the thought away for later.

_____
They were in the pit again. ER trauma bay. Full chaos. Incoming MVA. Monitors screaming. Nurses shouting.

The intern was about to cry.

 

Alina stepped in— voice raised, surgical calm slicing through the noise.

 

Aleksander, already gowned up, lifted a brow.

"You always yell like this?"

 

"When the rest of the room isn't listening? Yeah."

She called for blood.

He set up the portable ultrasound.

She sutured a bleeder.

He found the ruptured spleen.

They fell into rhythm.

____

On their way out, he grinned.

"You're not bad, Starkov."

"Don't flirt with me in a trauma bay," she said dryly.

"Who's flirting?"

 

⸻

A late night in the cafeteria on opposite  ends of the same table.

 

She pulled out a protein bar. He passed her a coffee without looking.

 

"It's shit coffee," Aleksander muttered. "But it's hot."

 

Alina snorted.

 

"That's your entire personality."

 

He laughed— surprised.

 

She didn't smile back.

But she took the cup.

 

⸻

1 year 2 months 2 days ago

 

The day had been long.

Three appendectomies, one laparoscopic nightmare, and one emotional support coffee later, Alina collapsed onto the faded teal couch of the staff lounge.

 

Aleksander was already there, ankles crossed on the table, reading from a tablet that probably cost more than her first car.

 

"Bad day?" he asked without looking up.

 

She grunted.

 

He smirked. "Your eloquence stuns."

 

Without opening her eyes, she gave him the finger. "Don't be charming. It doesn't suit you."

 

"That's untrue and you know it," he murmured. "I've been told I have a very... disarming presence."

 

She cracked one eye open. "By who? The FDA?"

 

Aleksander laughed— low and full-bodied.

 

It was almost easy now— the way they slipped into conversation like this.

Weeks of implementation rounds, sleepless troubleshooting, co-presenting case data at conferences.

 

She still rolled her eyes when he called himself a surgeon.

He still poked at her handwriting on charts.

 

But somewhere between the mutual complaints and late-night audits, the frost had melted into something... warmer.

 

She trusted him.

Not with everything.

But enough.

 

He never pushed.

 

And for that, she didn't question how often he showed up in the lounge when she was on call.

 

"Still coming to consult on the B16 rollout?" she asked, sitting upright.

 

"Of course. I live for multi-department chaos," he said. "Besides, you'd fall apart without me."

 

"Try me."

 

"I have. You cried."

 

"I had chili oil in my eye."

 

He looked like he was about to retort — when the door swung "Dr. Starkov?"

 

She turned.

And there he was.

Mal.

Hair shorter. Shoulders broader. So much taller. 

Wearing forest green scrubs and a badge that didn't belong here.

 

MALYEN ORETSEV

Emergency Medicine

Ketterdam General (Visiting)

 

Her stomach dipped. Not spiraled — just dipped.

Like a car cresting a hill before the drop.

 

Mal looked stunned. But not in a cinematic way.

In a real way. Like someone who thought they'd been prepared — but wasn't.

 

"I—sorry," he said. "They told me to ask for you. I didn't know you were here."

 

"I'm here." I’m here, Mal. 

 

A pause.

 

Aleksander's eyes flicked between them. Slowly. Carefully.

 

"It's... it's been a long time," Mal offered.

 

"It has." it was nothing short of a miracle how Alina managed to keep the tremor from her voice. 

 

Aleksander cleared his throat — just once — and stood.

 

Mal looked at him, the effort it took to drag his eyes from Alina, not subtle in the least .

 

"...Aleks?"

 

Aleksander raised a brow. "Didn't know we were on nickname terms."

 

"Right. Sorry. Aleksander."

 

"You two know each other?" Alina asked, the air tightening.

 

Mal smiled— hesitant. Warm. "Yeah. Long time ago."

 

Alina held her breath.

 

The air grew still, thick with something she couldn't name.

Then —

that grin. The beginnings of it, at least. Crooked. Wolfish.

 

The same grin he wore the day she split her knee on the dock and he told her pain made her look brave.

And then he laughed.

Loud. Too loud. A boom of bass and joy that didn't belong here.

Before she could brace herself, he was crossing the lounge in four long strides — arms wide, voice echoing.

 

"Aleksander, you bastard."

 

He didn't pause.

 

He dragged the older man into a crushing hug, clapping him hard on the back.

 

Alina startled. Blinked once— twice— like she'd missed a beat in a song she'd written herself.

 

But Aleksander didn't flinch.

Didn't scowl.

Didn't push him off.

 

He hugged him back.

 

And when they pulled apart, Aleksander was smiling.

 

Full. Unguarded.

The kind of smile she had spent months clawing her way toward.

The kind she'd earned through caffeine and chaos and a thousand late-night compromises.

 

And now it was just— there.

For Mal.

Notes:

Unfortunately I have to work. So the kids must work too.

 

Also in shock I made a deal
With myself to do a Mal
Chapter™️ next. Thoughts and prayers. 😔

Chapter 6

Mal

1 year 2 months 2 days ago

Mal hadn't meant to look so startled.

 

He thought he'd rehearsed this. Ten thousand what-ifs, three versions of the hallway, two shirt options, one neutral smile.

 

None of it survived the moment her eyes met his.

 

Alina.

 

Forest green scrubs. Badge borrowed. Heart somewhere in his throat.

MALYEN ORETSEV

Emergency Medicine — Ketterdam General (Visiting)

 

The letters looked strange even to him. As if wearing someone else's life.

 

And there she was.

 

Older. Sharper. Lighter?

No—heavier. She held herself like someone who didn't have time for ghosts.

 

Which made him feel all the more like one.

 

"I'm here," she said, and the phrase hit him like a gut punch. Not metaphorical. Real.

 

She was here.

 

Still saying it.

 

Still offering it.

 

Like he hadn't disappeared when it mattered most.

 

Like he hadn't sat behind that cracked concrete wall and let her voice fade into the rain.

 

⸻

 

He barely heard Aleksander. Barely registered the sharpness in his voice or the tension in his stance.

 

Until his own voice cracked.

 

"...Aleks?"

 

A mistake. He could feel it immediately.

 

The correction felt stupid in his mouth. "Aleksander."

 

Alina asked if they knew each other.

He offered the only version that fit: "Yeah. Long time ago."

 

And it was. In too many directions.

 

Still, the air felt tight. Like it was waiting.

 

And he didn't know what to do with it. So he defaulted.

 

To charm. To mischief. 

 

And for a second, it felt like Ketterdam never happened. Like the mop closet was still waiting. Like she'd still recognize the grin and call it home.

 

So he laughed.

 

Too loud. Too bright.

 

And pulled Aleksander into a hug before he could stop himself.

 

It was instinct. Muscle memory.

 

He expected resistance. Expected the sharp elbow or slow recoil.

 

But Aleksander hugged him back.

 

And when they pulled apart—

 

That smile.

 

Aleksander's smile.

 

Easy. Full. Soft in ways Mal hadn't seen in years.

 

It gutted him.

 

Because it meant something had shifted.

And he had no idea where he stood anymore.

 

⸻

 

He doesn't find her again that night.

 

Instead, he finds Aleksander.

 

"Alright," he says, voice too casual, "what the hell are you still doing here?"

 

Aleksander looks up from his tablet. Doesn't answer immediately.

 

Mal drops into the chair across from him, arms crossed.

 

"You've been in this hospital three weeks longer than you said. Your trial's done. Your rollout's done. You hate the coffee. Why are you still here?"

 

Aleksander shrugs, eyes back on the screen.

"I like the view."

 

"Bullshit."

 

A beat.

 

Aleksander sighs. Sets the tablet down.

 

"She was a surprise to you," he says.

 

Mal tenses. Doesn't deny it.

 

"I thought I was prepared," he admits. "Didn't know she was here."

 

"But you wanted to."

 

Mal looks away.

 

"I wasn't supposed to come back."

 

"You ran."

 

"Not like that."

 

"You always do."

 

A pause.

 

Then—quietly:

 

"Not always."

 

⸻

 

Mal hadn't planned to come back.

 

He told himself it was just a consult. Temporary. Nothing permanent.

Aleksander had phrased it like a favor. "A short-term rollout. Six weeks, maybe less."

 

He hadn't mentioned her.

 

Of course he hadn't.

 

⸻

 

The thing about hospitals is: they don't forget you.

 

Not the hallways. Not the vending machines. Not the cracked tile in the far stairwell that you tripped on your first week and bled into your socks.

 

They hold your shape long after you're gone.

 

Mal felt it the second he stepped through the doors.

 

Like he was trespassing.

 

Like he was being watched.

 

⸻

 

He saw her in the staff lounge.

 

Hair up. Scrubs wrinkled. Jacket slung over a chair. Laughing at something Genya said while Zoya rolled her eyes.

 

And it gutted him.

 

Not because she looked different.

 

But because she didn't.

 

⸻

20 years ago, Keramzin

Not foster siblings, but close enough.

Close enough to learn the soft code of survival—who got seconds in the dining hall, who cried at night, who bruised easy.

 

She was the smallest. The loudest. The one who always got caught.

 

She'd fight anyone for him, even if she couldn't win.

 

Once, he got into a scrap with another boy over an orange. Alina threw a rock at the kid's head and got banned from afternoon play for a week.

 

When Mal asked her why, she just shrugged.

 

"He had it coming."

 

⸻

 

The last time Mal ran away, it rained all day.

 

He doesn't remember what set him off.

A bad conversation. A punishment that felt unfair. That creeping feeling that he'd never be anything more than a number in a ledger.

 

He climbed the fence behind the laundry house and kept walking.

 

Didn't bring a bag. Didn't leave a note.

 

He just... went.

 

Made it as far as the train tracks behind the quarry. Thought maybe he'd hop a freight car like in the stories. Thought maybe he'd disappear.

 

But the night fell fast. And the cold got mean.

 

And then he heard her.

"Mal?"

 

Her voice, small but sharp, carried through the trees.

 

"I know you're out here. I'm not leaving till you come back."

 

He crouched low behind the half-cracked wall, arms wrapped tight around his knees, breath held like a secret.

 

"Please."

 

The leaves rustled. A twig snapped. She was close.

 

"I'm here, Mal."

 

He pressed his knuckles into his mouth and stayed silent.

 

She didn't find him.

 

He never answered.

 

And by the time he crept back two days later, she was gone.

 

Adopted by a family he never met. Moved to a place they wouldn't name.

 

He didn't get to say goodbye.

 

⸻

 

He'd known Aleksander since he was eight.

One of the in-between years.

One of the placements that didn't stick.

He doesn't remember the house—just the cold, and Aleksander's silence. And the way he never asked questions, even back then.

 

⸻

1 year 1 months 3 days ago 

"New hospital," Aleksander says, nodding toward the ER floor. "Same disasters."

 

They're standing by the observation windows, two coffees between them, one of which is untouched.

 

Mal shrugs. "You'd know."

 

Aleksander gives him a look. "Something bothering you?"

 

Mal doesn't reply.

 

He's watching the way the interns move around her. The way she gives a quiet nod when the plan is clear. The way she bites her lip when someone second-guesses her call.

 

"Is that your friend?" Aleksander asks lightly.

 

Mal stiffens. "What friend?"

 

"You've mentioned someone before. From—where was it? Boarding school?"

 

Mal nods vaguely. "Something like that."

 

Aleksander waits.

 

Mal says nothing.

 

⸻

 

Mal talks around her.

 

Always has.

 

"She liked lemon drops."

"She used to draw birds on the backs of worksheets."

"She once fixed a busted pipe with a shoelace and two paperclips."

 

Aleksander would hum. Or nod. Or raise an eyebrow.

 

But he never asked her name.

 

And Mal never said it.

 

⸻

 

They're leaving a meeting late—one of those redundant debriefs where nothing really gets solved and everyone's too exhausted to fight about it.

 

"So. You still haven't answered the question," Mal says, biting into an over-salted protein bar like it owed him money.

 

Aleksander doesn't look up. "What question is that?"

 

"What you're still doing here."

 

A pause.

 

Aleksander opens a file on the tablet. "Clinical follow-ups."

 

"Right," Mal drawls. "You're here for the documentation."

 

Aleksander smiles without humor. "Some of us take compliance seriously."

 

Mal lets it hang for a moment. Watching him.

 

"You're deflecting," he says eventually. "Again."

 

Their steps echo in the stairwell between floors.

 

"I thought you were only supposed to be here six weeks," Mal says casually. "Rollout oversight, right?"

 

Aleksander doesn't look at him. "Things took longer than expected."

 

Mal raises an eyebrow. "You? Letting things drag out?"

 

A smirk. "Don't get used to it."

 

Another beat of silence.

 

Then, more curious now than teasing:

"So what's keeping you?"

 

Aleksander stops just short of the landing. Glances over.

 

"Professional interest," he says simply.

 

Aleksander checks his watch, the third time in under a minute.

 

Mal gets ready to tease— but his eyes follow Aleksander's gaze to the stairwell.

 

Like he's waiting for someone to come down.

 

A nurse passes, holding a clipboard and half a sandwich.

He sees her the lopsided bun first, then her eyes, distant. Her brows furrowed, nose scrunched. The face she always made when trying to figure out how to score them an extra slice of pie before lights out. 

"Right on time," the nurse behind him mutters. "Tall, dark, and cynical wins. That's twenty bucks, Boris."

 

Mal doesn't laugh.

He's glances back to his friend. He watches Aleksander watch her.

⸻

 

He tells himself it doesn't matter now.

 

They've both grown up. Changed.

 

She's a surgeon. She's everything he thought she could be.

 

But then she smiled at him in the lounge. Tentative. Like she didn't know if she had the right.

 

And he felt twelve years old again, soaked to the bone, crouched behind a wall while she stood under a tree calling his name.

 

⸻

"You okay?" Aleksander asks again, this time softer.

 

Mal stares down at his coffee. "Do you ever think about the people you knew before?"

 

Aleksander lifts an eyebrow. "Before what?"

 

"Before all this."

 

Silence.

 

Aleksander turns away first. "No."

 

Mal nods. "Me neither."

⸻

 

That night, he lies awake on the too-small call room cot, listening to the humming of the vent and the muffled beeping of monitors.

 

And he remembers.

 

"I'm here, Mal."

 

He'd never said it back.

 

And now—

She's right there.

She's back.

 

And he still doesn't know how.

 

⸻

 

The first time he's alone with her again, it's an accident.

 

Sort of.

 

Someone's mixed up consult times. Or maybe Genya planned it. He doesn't know. He just ends up in the second-floor break room at the same time she does, both of them standing awkwardly at the coffee machine, pretending to read the buttons like they haven't both used it hundreds of times before.

 

"Still broken?" she asks, reaching for the sugar.

 

Mal nods.

 

She smiles. Soft. Tentative. Like she's not sure if she's allowed.

 

He shifts. She stirs. And for a minute, neither says anything.

 

Then—

 

"I didn't know you were here," she says, not accusing, just... tired.

 

"I didn't know you were here either."

 

They both know that's a lie.

 

Still. It doesn't matter. Not really.

 

Because she's standing right in front of him again, and her hair smells like rosemary, and the light is catching on her lashes in a way that makes him forget the speech he practiced in case this ever happened.

 

"Do you—" he starts. Then stops. Laughs a little, sheepish. "Sorry. I had a better opener in my head."

 

Alina chuckles, brushing her thumb over the lid of her cup.

 

"You used to practice speeches under the stairwell," she murmurs, like it's nothing. Like it's not the first time she's let the past slip between them.

 

Mal freezes. Then grins.

 

"Yeah. You always said they were bad."

 

"They were," she says.

 

But she's smiling.

 

It's all so soft. So stupid.

Like maybe if they just keep talking, they can pretend nothing happened in between.

 

⸻

 

Aleksander watches them from the end of the hall.

 

Not lurking.

 

Not quite.

 

Just still.

 

He's leaning against the wall like he belongs there, arms folded, face unreadable.

 

When Mal turns to mention something about an intern from Ketterdam, he catches Aleksander's eye and gestures him over.

 

Aleksander doesn't move.

 

Alina does.

 

She turns. Sees him watching.

And something in her expression shifts.

 

Her shoulders stiffen.

Her smile falters.

 

She sets her coffee down.

 

"I should get back to rounds," she says to Mal.

 

Mal nods. "Yeah. Me too."

 

She doesn't say goodbye to Aleksander.

 

He doesn't say anything at all.

 

⸻

 

Later, Aleksander will toss a chart onto Mal's desk and say something about improper patient handovers.

 

Mal will roll his eyes.

 

Aleksander will mention Alina. Offhand.

"She seems... sharper now."

 

Mal will smile. "She hasn't changed at all."

 

That night, Mal lies awake again. The ceiling vent buzzes. The light from the hallway bleeds under the door.

 

He remembers her voice again.

 

"I'm here, Mal."

 

He still hasn’t answered. 

Chapter 7

Notes:

Smut but also feelings? And a sprinkle of plot

Present

Mal makes her breakfast like a ritual he once read about, a way to love someone who’s slipping away.

 

Eggs. Toast. A banana.

 

He never eats the banana. Just slices it carefully onto her plate each morning like it might anchor her. Like potassium could tether a ghost.

 

“You said the family medicine practice might help,” he says, sliding the plate across the table. “That it would be gentler. Less pressure.”

 

She doesn’t meet his eyes. Her fingers curl around the coffee mug like it might save her.

 

“That was three months ago,” she murmurs.

 

“You said it yourself, Lina. It’s harder to go back when you’ve been away too long.”

 

He’s not wrong. That’s the part that stings the most.

 

“I know.”

“Then just go in. Just for a few hours.”

 

Just.

 

Like it’s small.

Like going back into that building isn’t like walking into the shell of a life that no longer fits.

 

“You’re always better when you’re working,” he adds gently.

 

She wonders if he’s right — or if he just prefers her when she’s too busy to fall apart.
____

She gets dressed like she’s going somewhere sacred.

 

Hair half-up. A blouse she hasn’t worn since she last led rounds. Lipstick too bold for the empty halls. Heels she’ll regret by noon.

 

The office is a ghost town.

 

She still has the key. Still knows the access code. Still sees her name on the glass — a name that doesn’t feel like hers anymore.

 

The receptionist used to greet her brightly.

 

Today, she just nods.

 

“You’ve got someone waiting in your office.”

 

Alina frowns. “I don’t have patients until noon.”

 

“He said he could wait.”

____

 

He’s sitting in her chair.

 

Of course he is.

 

Legs stretched out. Jacket draped over the arm like a flag. Like he owns the space.

 

He looks up slowly, like he knew it would be her but still wanted the jolt of seeing it for himself.

 

“You’re late,” he murmurs.

 

“Get out,” she says, without preamble.

 

He stands. Picks up her pen. Sets it down again.

 

“You’re angry,” he observes.

 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

 

“And yet, here I am.”

 

She doesn’t move. Neither does he. The silence between them expands, thick with all the things they haven’t said — won’t say.

 

“Did Mal pack your lunch again?” he asks, glancing at her bag.

 

“Don’t do that.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Mock this.”

 

“I’m not mocking,” he says, low. “I’m mourning.”

 

“Mourning what?” she snaps.

 

“The version of you that used to lie to yourself less.”

 

She turns to leave.

 

“I have a meeting.”

 

“I know.” He smiles faintly. “It’s with me.”

____

 

He stands. Crosses the room, slow.

 

“What time is lunch?”

 

“I have a call—”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

She exhales sharply.

 

“I’m not in the mood to play.”

 

“Good. Then don’t.”

 

“I mean it, Aleks—”

 

“And I know when you don’t.”

 

That’s what undoes her.

Because he does.

 

He crowds her back against the desk. Never quite touching — just watching her chest rise and fall until she breaks first.

 

“They could walk in,” she whispers.

 

“They won’t.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I do,” he murmurs, and kisses her.

____

She grips the edge of the desk as his hand slides beneath her waistband, fingers brushing heat with the reverence of someone reacquainting himself with scripture.

 

Her head tips back. His name is a curse on her tongue.

 

“I hate you,” she breathes.

 

“I know.”

 

She yanks at his belt.

 

He lifts her onto the desk like he’s done it before.
(He has.)

 

The first thrust knocks over a stack of papers. The second has her gasping, knuckles white on the drawer handle.

 

“Mal made me breakfast,” she says suddenly, half-hysterical.

 

“Then thank him,” Aleksander mutters, breath warm against her ear, “for keeping you alive long enough to come back right here”

 

She comes with his mouth on her throat and her name a benediction in the quiet.

 

He doesn’t speak after. Just buttons her blouse with shaking hands and straightens the pens on her desk like it matters.

 

“You’ll be late for your meeting.”

 

That was the meeting.

____

His office is at the far end of the hall —glass walls, frosted just enough to feign decency.

It’s a glass box.

The kind executives use when they want to feel powerful and pretend they’re discreet.

Everyone pretends they can’t see.

No one knocks unless invited.

They take separate elevators. She smooths her hair. Doesn’t check the mirror.

 

She steps inside his office without being asked.

 

“You redecorated,” she says dryly.

 

“You were the last thing I redecorated for,” he replies. 

 

There’s a sleek little lunch spread on the table — catered, elegant, untouched.

 

She doesn’t sit.

 

“You can’t fuck me here,” she says plainly.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because this—this isn’t—”

 

“Your office?” he offers, amused. “Your rules?”

 

“Aleks—”

 

“The walls are mirrored,” he says softly, stepping behind her. “One-way. For the faint of heart.”

 

He presses a kiss to the curve of her neck.

 

“You’re not faint, Alina.”

___

He bends her over the table like a vow.

 

Her breath fogs the glass as he parts her thighs.

She hears her own gasp echo faintly as his hand slides between her legs.

It’s not even about want.

It’s about desecration with intent.

About surrendering power in a room designed to hold it.

 

He doesn’t undress fully. Just enough. Just him — unzipping his slacks with clinical precision, slipping into her like it was always on the schedule.

 

“They can’t see in,” he murmurs.

 

“But they know.”

 

“Good.”

 

But then Aleksander pauses, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you sure?”

 

“No.”

 

Her lipstick is smeared in the reflection.

 

“Turn around.”

 

She does.

 

“Touch the glass.”

 

She does that too.

 

He slides in — no tease, no buildup, just the brutal truth of him — and the first thrust steals her breath. The second, her composure. The third draws a sound from her throat she hasn’t made in months.

 

One hand on her hip. The other cups her throat.

 

“Look,” he says. “Watch what you let me do to you.”

 

She does. Not because he tells her to.

But because she always watches — to punish herself.

 

Her phone buzzes. She ignores it.

His does. He doesn’t.

 

He grabs it off the desk, still buried inside her, and answers like he’s not fucking her through a glass wall.

 

“This is Morozova.”

(pause)

“I’m in a meeting.”

 

Another thrust. Slow. Devastating.

 

“No, I’m not available.” He looks at her reflection. “Let’s reconvene next week.”

 

He hangs up.

Keeps going.

 

Fucks her like she’s a habit. A hunger.

A ruin with his name on it.

 

“You’re insane,” she rasps.

 

“No,” he murmurs. “Just yours.”

 

She comes with a sob, pressed to the glass like penance.

____

The second time— because it’s never just the one— she scratches his name into the leather of his chair.

He pulls her hair back just to watch her mouth fall open in the reflection.

 

When she comes again, it’s not silent.

 

He cups his hand over her mouth.

Not to stop her.

Just to hold the sound.

 

The ache.

The consequence.

 

He finishes with a low groan, like it hurts to let go.

Maybe it does.

 

He adjusts her skirt. Fixes her collar. Picks up her coat like he didn’t just ruin her against the skyline.

 

“You’ll be late,” he says, soft.

 

She exhales.

_____

They sit across from each other again.

 

The folder is still between them. Her patent.

The thing she filed before the spiral.

 

“Why are you helping me?” she asks.

 

“Because I remember who you were before you tried to become someone else.”

 

“You mean before I tried to be good.”

 

He doesn’t answer.

 

“You don’t have to stay,” he says finally.

 

“I’m not staying for you.”

 

“No,” he says. “You’re staying in spite of you.

____

1 year 4 months ago 

They had been in bed. One of the rare nights she let him stay.

Her head on his chest. His hand on her back.

 

She thought he was asleep.

 

“Why did you leave, Aleks?” she whispered. He had a been a brilliant surgeon by all accounts. Before she had ever started working here. Before she had even met him. Before. 

And these days she watched him linger around the OT in the name of product launch. Watch him slip so casually, so easily between forward thinking innovator and surgical prodigy. 

He didn’t answer right away.

 

When he did, his voice was careful.

 

“You’re asking the wrong question.”

 

At the time, it sounded like an excuse.

 

She didn’t realize it was an answer.

Not until it was too late to matter. 

___

Around 4 months ago 

She sits in the stairwell. Alone.

 

White coat still on. Hands stained with ink, not blood.

 

Everything is going well.

 

She’s co-authoring a paper. Her patent cleared.

She’s not with Aleksander. Not really. Just the occasional lunch. The occasional night.

 

Mal still makes her breakfast.

 

She should feel proud.

 

Instead—

 

She closes her eyes and remembers that night in bed.

His voice, low and steady.

 

Because I knew I couldn’t survive if I stayed.

 

And suddenly, for the first time, Alina understands.

 

She had been asking the wrong question.

 

All this time.

 

 

Chapter 8

4 months ago

The day Alina decides to quit begins like any other good day.

 

The OR is cold. The light is bright. Alina's hands don't shake.

 

The patient is bleeding more than expected, but her mind sharpens under pressure—she calls for suction, adjusts her retraction, controls the bleeder. When it's over, she peels off her gloves with a satisfying snap. The senior nods. The scrub nurse gives her a fist bump. Someone makes a joke about golden hands.

 

She laughs.

 

By lunch, she's already writing up the case—citing studies, drafting questions for the M&M. Nadia sends a voice note about the wedding photos. Alina promises to call her back.

 

Someone buys her coffee. She doesn't remember who.

 

By the time evening rounds begin, the adrenaline has faded, but the pride remains. The patient is stable. Clean sheets. Family waiting at the door. Someone says she's glowing.

 

Alina smiles.

It's been a good day.

 

⸻

"Magic hands," someone whispers behind her.

"You're gonna get published for this," says another.

 

She smiles. Accepts the praise. Walks calmly to the stairwell.

 

And collapses.

 

⸻

 

There's no reason to cry.

She's not overwhelmed. Not scared. There have been worse surgeries.

 

She has a partner who loves her. Friends who brag about her. Mentors who recommend her without hesitation.

 

She's doing everything she said she would.

 

And yet—on the cold steps between the second and third floor, beneath the whir of overhead fans and the bitter tang of antiseptic—

Alina Starkov feels like she's already died.

 

⸻

 

Mal finds her an hour later.

 

He doesn't say much. Just sits beside her, hand on her knee.

 

"It's just the adrenaline dump," he says. "You're brilliant. You did everything right."

 

She doesn't correct him.

Because that's the problem, isn't it?

 

She did do everything right.

 

So why does it feel like nothing?

 

So why is she in the stairwell, clutching the railing, breath caught in her throat like something has broken inside her?

 

When Mal gets a call, apologizes as he begins running upstairs, Alina is relieved.

She sinks onto the concrete, white coat pooling around her like a shroud. Covers her mouth with one hand. Tries not to sob loud enough to echo.

 

⸻

 

Later, she sits on the edge of Mal's bed.

 

"I need to leave," she says quietly.

 

He groans, eyes still half-shut, reaching for her hand. "Okay. Let's get our coats. I'll drive."

 

"No," she whispers. "Mal. I need to leave."

 

His body stills.

 

"...Leave?"

 

She nods. "Medicine."

 

A beat.

 

Then: "What… What are you talking about?"

 

"You were right," she says. "I had a good day. A really good one. I did everything I said I would. I wrote the paper. I helped the intern. I crushed that case."

 

"And?"

 

"And I still wanted to scream the entire time."

 

Mal sits up, rubbing at his eyes. "You're overwhelmed. You need rest. That's all."

 

She turns away. "Maybe."

 

They sleep.

She thinks.

He dreams.

 

⸻

 

The apartment is silent when she wakes.

Too silent.

Mal is gone.

 

She reaches for her phone, sets it back down.

Then picks it up again.

 

The date glares back at her.

 

She stares until the screen blurs.

 

Somewhere, a clock ticks.

She doesn't remember owning a clock.

 

She opens his contact.

 

She doesn't press call.

 

Instead, she types his name into LinkedIn.

It still says the hospital—the one he only ever visited.

 

She remembers how his badge was always turned backwards in photos.

Like he was trying to make it harder to prove he was ever there.

 

There's a photo on her camera roll. She scrolls until she finds it.

She's standing by the elevator.

He's just out of frame.

 

⸻

1 year 4 months ago

There was one night—before everything.

She'd rolled onto her side, staring at him through a light too pale, too sterile to ever be mistaken for moonlight.

 

She slept in her own bed more often now—

Well. Her bed at his place.

 

Sometimes, he looked almost peaceful like this.

Hair mussed by sleep... and her fingers.

Brows relaxed for once, not knitted in disdain.

Mouth not curled into a smirk or tightened in displeasure.

Just soft.

Still.

 

His lashes fanned across his cheek like something delicate, almost gentle.

She stayed like that—watching him—for a few breaths too long.

Then:

 

"Why did you leave?"

 

Aleksander stirred.

Bristled.

Half-asleep.

 

She exhaled, a sigh of relief—not because he hadn't heard her, but because he had.

 

She maneuvered out from under the arm he always threw over her chest—lazy, possessive—and turned to face the ceiling.

But behind her, she heard it:

His breath hitching.

The pause before the shift.

 

A moment later, his hand found her jaw. Gently turned her face back toward his, like it mattered.

Like it was important that she see him.

 

He blinked at her in the dark.

 

She thinks now—he looked sad.

 

Back then, she couldn't name it. But there had been something in the way his eyes searched her face.

Something in the way he pulled her in again, like it was offensive for them to be in bed and not touching.

Aleksander didn't cuddle.

He claimed.

A limb always draped across her like punctuation. Like proof.

 

"You're asking the wrong question, milaya," he murmured, voice low and ragged, a kind of gravel reserved only for these hours.

 

And before she could kill the moment—

before she could drown in the weight of it and interrupt with something thoughtless, some invitation to fuck the quiet away—

Aleksander touched her cheek.

Pressed a kiss to her forehead.

And pulled the blanket over them both.

 

Like that was enough.

 

Like that answered her.

 

⸻

4 months ago

Now, she's cold.

 

She dials.

 

When he answers, he says nothing.

Just breathes.

 

She doesn't know what to say either.

For a long time, they just listen to the sound of each other existing.

 

Then she whispers:

"...How."

 

One word.

 

He exhales like he's been holding it in for months.

And maybe he has.

 

There's a pause before he speaks again.

 

"Where are you?"

 

"Home."

 

His inhale is sharp—a sudden, startled sound.

Too loud. Too fast.

So different from the quiet, steady breathing she used to fall asleep to. The same rhythm he used to keep for her in the OT. When she'd tremble and only he could see.

 

"Alina—"

That tone. It used to infuriate her.

How kind he could be. Because that meant all the other times, he was choosing not to be.

 

"I'm coming."

 

⸻

1 year 5 months ago

Alina remembers, vividly, the first time they ever shared a bed.

 

A lumpy cot. Too small even for just him.

But it was a truce.

 

Aleksander hadn't asked questions.

He'd already decided who she was.

And in a strange, broken way, that was comforting.

 

So when he'd asked the next morning if she needed a tampon, she'd rolled her eyes and muttered something about her cycle being two weeks away.

 

She didn't even remember the moment—until later that night, when he looked at her strangely and said, plainly,

"I don't want a relationship."

 

Alina had snorted. Rolled her eyes.

Aleksander was no knight in shining armor.

 

"Such a gentleman," she'd said, with every ounce of bravado she had left—because, of course, it stung.

 

Worse still: she had never asked for any of it.

Not the romance. Not the pretending.

The sex, she had figured, had been inevitable.

The way these things always ended—or began.

 

They never spoke of it again.

 

Even when she woke in the middle of the night to him muttering things in his sleep.

 

Even when he bought her a new easel, grumbling that she needed an adjustable one because she kept hunching while painting.

 

Genya said it was called friends with benefits.

 

Alina tried to believe that.

 

For four whole months.

 

Until Aleksander had laughed in her face.

Called her easy for smiling back at Nikolai Lantsov.

After, had pressed her into the desk in his office and whispered filth against her throat while fucking her.

 

And she'd liked it more than she had words for.

 

Because Aleksander knew.

 

And she knew he knew.

 

⸻

4 months ago

He likes to pretend it started when Mal showed up.

 

It makes everything easier, she thinks.

Gives him a villain.

 

A reason for how it all boiled over.

For why she stopped showing up.

 

First to the interdepartmental meetings.

Then to the lounge—where he pretended he wasn't waiting for her.

Then to his office.

Then to the estate.

 

Aleksander wanted to keep her.

But he didn't want her.

And that, she thinks, was a special kind of hell.

 

And one she bought the ticket for—again and again.

 

It was never one moment.

It was the sum of a hundred silences.

A thousand whispered cruelties in place of apologies when they were finally alone.

 

Mal's return wasn't the reason, no matter what Aleksander thinks.

It was just the excuse. The permission.

 

The opening he needed to punish her for daring to look elsewhere.

For being perceived as his and not acting like it.

 

⸻

She’s in his bedroom—her bedroom now, in name only.

He wraps her up without asking, the way he does when he needed distance masked as care. Places a kiss on her forehead then mutters something about finishing a report. Tells her he’ll be in bed in a few minutes.

 

She wanders to his study anyway.

Drapes herself across the leather couch.

Waits.

 

He sighs

Sits beside her.

Whispers her name, like it hurts.

 

She doesn’t move.

Just stares at his mouth.

 

He sighs again.

Kisses her forehead.

Whispers “Not like this."

 

Scoops her up. Footsteps echoing against marble tiles as he pads down the hallway back to his bedroom. She sinks into his warmth. Sighs against his chest.

 

Aleksander deposits her on her side of the bed.

Drapes himself over her like she might disappear.

 

⸻

 

She doesn’t leave his bed for two weeks.

 

She doesn't know what he told Mal.

If he told Mal anything.

 

She only knows that when she does leave Aleksander leaves twenty-three voicemails.

 

Is waiting in her apartment by the time she finally stops wandering and half stumbles  home.

 

Furious.

 

"Why would you fucking leave and not tell me, Alina?"

 

"I didn't tell anyone."

 

She says it again. Because now, she hates him a little. 

 

Because she knows he'd postponed his entire South American rollout to stay at the estate.

To make her soup.

To ask nothing of her but that she exist.

And he knows she knows.

 

⸻

 

Aleksander fucks her that night.

Like it might breathe life back into her.

 

"Like it might fix me," she blurts, somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom.

 

He stops short.

Like she's slapped him.

 

"You think I'm trying to fix you, Alina?"

 

His voice is tight. Hurt.

 

She's never seen him truly angry before.

 

"What the fuck have I ever done to make you believe I think you're broken?"

 

She sobs then.

 

Screams at him to leave.

 

He doesn’t .

 

Just lets her wear herself out.

 

Then lays her down.

Strokes maddeningly gentle circles into her lower back until she falls asleep.

 

⸻

 

Later, when she wakes up panicking—

 

She'll pretend she didn't reach for him first.

 

That her body didn't relax when she felt his warmth at her back.

 

That even half-asleep, he didn't kiss her shoulder and mumble:

 

"Still here."

 

⸻

 

Alina couldn't stay with Aleksander. Not after everything.

 

She tells him that.

 

He groans.

Rolls his eyes.

Says he only needs to know that she’s fine.

 

Then leaves her apartment. She hopes he’ll leave for the three month leg of rollout. Brazil. The next morning he shows up with breakfast. And the morning after that. 

And the one after that. 

⸻

 

The second time, she tells him it won't happen again—

He nods.

 

But he doesn't believe her.

 

And neither does she

Notes:

This was just supposed to be a smut fic how did we get here