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I froze.

He never asked for anything nonsexual from me. Never begged for even an ounce of affection. How could I deny him? I sat on the edge of the bed and cupped his jaw, letting him see the answer in my face before I said it.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a breath—shaky, relieved—like that one sentence held him together more than any blanket could. He shifted, making space beside him, a silent invitation I didn’t hesitate to take. I lay down with him, and the moment I did, he curled into my chest, his fingers buried in my shirt.

I wrapped an arm around him, my hand finding the back of his neck. The muscles there were tensed into a hard knot, but when I stroked lightly, he melted. No wry wit, no sharp tongue, no armor forged from a lifetime of clawing his way through hell.

Just Yuriy.

Tired. Frayed. And more human than I’d ever seen him.

Eventually, I eased out from under his sleeping frame, careful, slow, leaving him tucked beneath the blankets. He didn’t stir. I hovered close, never more than a few steps away. I ordered food to the room and picked at it without tasting anything. Took some calls. Glanced at him every few minutes. He didn’t move. Hours slid past until outside, the light dimmed into evening.

He needed this rest more than anything. But when he woke… he’d be starving.

I pulled out my phone and called Yelena.

“Papa?” Her voice crackled over the line. “How is he? Is he coming back with you?”

“He’ll be fine.” I gazed back at the bed. “He slept the entire day. He’ll wake up hungry, so I’m taking him out to eat. Know anywhere good?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, brightening. “There’s a little restaurant called Morozka. Cozy. Traditional dishes. Comfort food.”

“But will he like it?”

“He should. Zasha talks nonstop about the pelmeni their mother used to make. It’s Morozka’s specialty.”

“Good,” I murmured.

“Papa?”

“Yes, printsessa?”

“Are you coming home tonight?”

I looked at Yuriy sleeping, body still, breath slow, brow furrowed like even his dreams were tired. He shifted, reaching out across the empty side of the bed as if searching for me.

“I don’t think so,” I said softly.

“So it’s really serious? You and Yuriy?”

“It is for me,” I said truthfully. But wanting him wasn’t enough. I had to make him believe he deserved this. That we deserved this.

“I hope it works out,” she murmured. “I want you to be happy.”

So do I, I wanted to say. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

Yuriy wasn’t a splash of color in my gray world. He was the whole damn spectrum—violent, brilliant, impossible, unforgettable. Even when we were enemies, he was the most alive part of my days.

He shifted again, this time waking. One arm stretched across the bed, palm searching. When he found nothing, he lifted his head, eyes sweeping the room until they landed on me. The tension left his shoulders all at once, his body sinking back into the mattress.

“I’ll call you later,” I said to Yelena.

“By the way, Papa?”

“Yes, Printsessa.”