Chapter Text
At 5:30 am, they sit in a rundown 24-hour diner on a Brooklyn corner. The coffee pot looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks. Outside, the February snow lies in dirty, packed heaps along the curbs, and the air is so cold it feels like it could cut your lungs. Inside, it’s warm, with the smell of burnt bacon and brewed coffee hanging in the air.
Ani sits across from Igor, her chin resting on her hand. Her jacket draped over the back of her chair, and there’s a faint trace of bright lipstick left on her lips. She’s looking at him like she’s trying to figure something out but can’t quite get there.
Igor is silent, tracing the rim of his cup with a finger. He’s thirty, but he looks older : tired face, a few bruised knuckles, dark circles under his eyes. He came to America three years ago to take care of his grandmother. She had cancer, and her final months were spent in the cramped stillness of their small Brighton apartment, where the smells of dill and medicine mingled into something stifling.
After her death, he stayed. He thought about returning to Russia, but there was nothing for him there. Here, at least, there was work — ugly work, but steady. Security, bouncer, sometimes the fights Ani mentioned. He wasn’t proud, but it paid the bills.
“In Russia, I studied to be an engineer,” he says, finally breaking the silence. His voice is low, rough, as if he’s always on the verge of a cold.
Ani smirks.
“And now you punch people for a living.”
He shakes his head slightly.
“Looks like it.”
Ani takes another sip of her coffee, though it’s long gone cold and tastes awful. She holds the cup anyway for the warmth. She studies him, like she’s trying to see how this man in front of her is pieced together, what shards make him whole.
“Sometimes I’m still afraid of you,” she says quietly.
He flinches, looking up just a little.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs.
“No,” she says, pausing before adding, “Promise me you’ll never die.”
Igor stares at her, frowning. For a moment, she catches something vulnerable in his eyes, something that doesn’t fit with his rough hands, gravelly voice, and hardened face.
“Are you serious?” he asks.
Ani lifts her head.
“Yes. If you die, who’s left?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches across the table, his calloused fingers brushing against her wrist. It’s not a promise, just a clumsy attempt to be there, at least for now.