Page 120 of The Bratva Betrayal

Yet.

Would that be so bad?

Not with the way he’s been showing up for me. Not with the eggs and the Lisbon booking and the way he kisses me.

But the word still makes something in me tighten, which is probably why he said “yet” instead of anything more specific.

He plants things and waits for them to grow.

“You did that on purpose,” I narrow my eyes.

He picks up his wine. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You absolutely know what I mean.”

“Move in with me,” he says again, unbothered. “We’ll figure out the rest later.”

I think about it. Not the moving in, but the other part.

When I’m ready for it.

Not today. But eventually.

“Your apartment is where Misha lived,” I say. “Where he and I—“ I stop, because he knows, and saying it out loud in any more detail is something neither of us needs. “I can’t move into that apartment.”

“I know. I meant a new place. Something we pick together that has nothing to do with anyone else.”

“You and me? Are you serious?”

“When am I not? You can wake up next to me every morning,” he says, quieter now. “You already do most of the time, anyway. This would just make it official.”

“What kind of place?”

“Whatever you want. You can have the whole closet; I don’t care about closet space. I’ll make breakfast.” He pauses for a second. “You know I make some mean eggs.”

“That’s all you can make.”

“I make them well.”

“That’s a very low bar for cohabitation.”

Something warm moves through my chest.

No hidden agendas.

No pressure.

Just a relationship that keeps becoming the best thing I’ve ever experienced.

“I get the final say on the kitchen.”

“Fine.”

“And the bedroom.”

“Alright.”

“And I won’t compromise on natural light.”