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You could usually tell when Mitya had been to the theater before he mentioned it. He would return to the Armory Palace with his notebook open, his coat still fastened, and an idea he apparently couldn’t bear to keep to himself for the time it took to cross the room. Sometimes he remembered to greet you first. Other times, your greeting became part of whatever he was trying to explain.
Today, he managed your name before setting his notebook beside your elbow.
“Have you got a moment? There’s something I’d like you to look at, and I’d rather hear what you think before I convince myself it’s brilliant.”
You lowered your pen and examined the page. His handwriting grew harder to read toward the bottom, where several lines competed for the remaining space. After trying to work out which ones he intended you to follow, you glanced up at him. “Which part am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The last section. No, a little further down. Here.” He leaned beside you, pointing out a line you had mistaken for something he’d crossed out. “I know, I know. I’ll make a clean copy. It was dark, and I didn’t want to lose the thought.”
“Were you at the theater again?” you asked, although the state of his notes had already given you a fairly good answer.
“Mm. Vodyanitsa was performing.” He answered easily, still looking at the page, and you lowered your gaze before he could notice the small change in your expression. You should have guessed her name would come up. It usually did.
Mitya either missed your hesitation or mistook it for concentration, because he pulled the neighboring chair closer and continued with the comfortable enthusiasm you had once found so difficult not to smile at. He had explained his visits to you before. When work stopped moving, when every approach seemed to lead him back to the same frustrating conclusion, he went somewhere that encouraged him to think differently. A performance could stir something loose: an emotion, an unexpected interpretation, or a moment that stayed with him after the music ended.
You understood the appeal. You had even liked hearing him talk about it.
There was something lovely about watching a person so capable of picking apart a difficult problem become equally absorbed in explaining why a singer’s hesitation had affected him. He paid attention to things you might have overlooked, and when he tried to describe them, he made you want to have noticed them too. That afternoon, however, you found yourself looking at the faint crease between his brows instead of his notes.
“Are you following?” he asked, turning toward you when you failed to respond.
You straightened and made yourself look at the page. “Yes. I think the second assumption needs checking before you use it in the next stage.”
“Ah, you noticed that too.” His expression brightened as he turned the notebook slightly toward you. “That’s the part I wasn’t certain about. I thought perhaps—”
He stopped when you reached for your own papers. The movement was deliberate, though you tried to make it seem ordinary as you drew the unfinished report closer. “I’ll leave comments on it tomorrow.”
“Oh. All right.” He remained seated beside you for a moment, and you could feel him looking at your profile, waiting for the conversation to continue as it normally did. When you kept your attention on the report, he slowly drew the notebook back toward himself. “Tomorrow, then.”
You waited until he had returned to his desk before letting your shoulders relax. It should not have taken that much effort to finish a conversation with someone, especially someone whose company you had once spent half the day looking forward to.
You hadn’t fallen for him because he was difficult to understand. That would have been easier to forgive.
Mitya was perfectly capable of telling you what he thought. He could be warm, honest, unexpectedly funny when he wasn’t trying to be, and terribly difficult to interrupt once a subject had caught his interest. He listened when you disagreed with him. Sometimes he argued, sometimes he laughed and admitted you were right, and sometimes he appeared beside your desk hours later because he had thought of something else.
You had grown used to being looked for, to the way he said your name when he wanted your attention and already sounded pleased at the prospect of having it.
Your days at the Royal Energy Commission had become full of small habits you hadn’t meant to attach any importance to. You knew where he left the reports he would later insist he’d misplaced. He knew which chair made your back ache. When the two of you worked late, he would set food beside your papers and keep talking.
You started staying later than you needed to, then caught yourself looking forward to the quieter hours when everyone else had gone home. By the time you realized how much of your happiness had become dependent on the desk opposite yours, Mitya was already asking whether you wanted to join him at the theater again.
You accepted, and afterward, you stood beside him while Vodyanitsa greeted him with an easy smile.
“You made it! I was beginning to wonder whether someone had finally managed to keep you at the Armory Palace.”
“Not for lack of trying,” he replied, a little amused. “But I did say I’d come.”
“Yes, and I’ve learned to be very pleased when that means you actually appear.” She turned toward you then, her expression welcoming. “You too. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
You answered politely, drawing off your gloves while the last of the audience moved through the foyer. Warm air carried fragments of conversation around you, interrupted whenever the doors opened and admitted a sharp breath of cold from the street. Beside you, Vodyanitsa asked Mitya what he had thought of the performance, and he answered without hesitation.
There was no fumbling for a compliment or vague assurance that it had been good. He mentioned a change she had made, listened when she explained it, and became interested enough in her answer that you had to step aside to let another patron pass. Neither of them noticed you move.
It was such a small thing that you felt ridiculous for remembering it afterward.
They hadn’t excluded you. Vodyanitsa had asked for your opinion too, and Mitya had turned toward you immediately, interested in what you would say. Yet you had already begun feeling as though you were standing outside something, watching an ease between them that you didn’t know how to find for yourself.
He made room for her. Even when his schedule was difficult, even when getting away involved more trouble than an ordinary evening ought to require, he found a way to be there. You wondered whether the time he spent with you counted in quite the same way.
You were already at the laboratory, sitting close enough to answer when he spoke. He didn’t have to choose to find you, because most days, you had made certain he wouldn’t need to.
On the walk home, Mitya asked why you were so quiet. You told him you were tired, and he glanced at you before slowing his pace to match yours.
“We should have left earlier. I didn’t realize how late it had become.”
“It’s fine. You were enjoying yourself.” You kept your attention on the path ahead, trying to sound as though the thought hadn’t bothered you.
“So were you, I hope?” he asked, looking at you with enough concern that you felt guilty for making him worry.
“Yes, I enjoyed it.” You watched the lamps along the street while he considered your answer. After a moment, he seemed to accept it and continued walking beside you. You wished you could have believed it as easily.
Pulling away was easier when you did it a little at a time.
At first, you stopped extending your evenings. When your work was finished, you put it away. If Mitya was occupied, you didn’t wait for him to look up before saying goodbye. Then you stopped going to the theater, which was a change he noticed more quickly.
“Not tonight?” he asked, pausing beside your desk with his coat over one arm. “You said that last time. Has the work been keeping you here?”
“No, I have other things to do.” You closed the ledger, hoping the movement would make it clear that you were preparing to leave.
“Anything I can help with?” he offered, watching as you put your papers away.
You shook your head. Mitya adjusted the coat over his arm, his scarf shifting against his shoulder, but he didn’t immediately move toward the door.
“Well, perhaps we could do something another evening,” he suggested. “There’s no reason it has to be the theater. Have dinner with me tomorrow? We haven’t done that in a while.”
Your fingers stopped on the clasp of your bag. He sounded so ordinary about it, which was the worst part. He could offer you something you would spend the rest of the night thinking about without seeming to know he had done anything at all.
“I’d rather not,” you said, finishing with the clasp before you could reconsider.
Mitya’s expression grew uncertain. “Tomorrow doesn’t suit you?”
“I don’t want to go out, Mitya.” You kept your voice even, though you could already feel the heat gathering beneath your collar. If you sounded irritated, perhaps he would leave before your refusal became any more difficult.
He looked at you for a few seconds before nodding. “All right. I won’t keep you, then.”
You expected him to move away, but instead, he rested his hand lightly against the back of the chair beside yours.
“Have I upset you?”
Your stomach tightened at the question. You had known he would eventually ask, but knowing hadn’t helped you prepare an answer. “No, you haven’t upset me.”
“You’ve been rather distant with me lately. I thought you might be tired, but…” He hesitated, studying your face with an attention you could no longer mistake for absentmindedness. “If I’ve said something, I’d prefer you told me. I’m not always as careful as I ought to be.”
“You haven’t said anything,” you assured him, reaching for your bag because you needed something to do with your hands.
“Then what is it?” His voice remained gentle, and you found yourself wishing he would sound annoyed instead. It would have made leaving much easier.
“I’d like to go home.”
For a moment, he looked as though he might ask again. You could almost see him deciding whether another question would help or make you retreat further. Then his hand left the chair, and he stepped back.
“Of course. Good night.”
You managed to return the farewell before walking past him. Outside, the cold caught at your throat before you had finished fastening your coat, and you welcomed the discomfort. It gave you something else to concentrate on while you walked away from the building, refusing to glance back at the light in your laboratory window.
He didn’t immediately stop trying. A week later, you found a book beside your papers.
You recognized it before Mitya said anything. You had mentioned wanting it during a walk past a bookseller’s window, back when you still let those walks take longer than they needed to. When you picked it up, he looked over from his desk.
“They finally had another copy,” he said. “I remembered you saying you wanted to read it. I wasn’t sure whether you’d found one somewhere else, but I thought I’d take the chance.”
You ran your thumb along the edge of the cover. It was a small, thoughtless movement, and you regretted it as soon as you noticed him notice.
“No, I haven’t bought it.”
“Oh, good.” His relief was immediate enough to hurt, and you set the book down before you could give him any more reason to think you would accept it.
“But you should keep it,” you added.
Mitya’s smile faltered as he looked between you and the book. “Why? Is it the wrong edition?”
“It’s fine. I just don’t need you buying things for me.”
“I know you don’t need me to.” He turned his chair toward you, trying to catch your eyes. “I wanted to. You seemed interested when we saw it, and I thought you’d be pleased.”
You were pleased. You were so pleased that you could hardly bear to look at him, which was exactly why you couldn’t take it.
If you brought the book home, it would stop being an ordinary book. You would remember that he had thought of you when you weren’t there to remind him. You would begin wondering what that meant, and every time you tried to settle on a harmless explanation, some stubborn part of you would insist there might be another.
You had spent weeks trying to quiet that part of yourself.
“Please take it back, Mitya.” You made yourself meet his eyes long enough to say it, then looked down at your papers.
He glanced at the book. When he spoke again, the brightness had gone from his voice.
“All right. I’m sorry. I thought…” He stopped without finishing, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ask what he had been about to say.
You moved the book closer to the edge of his desk, then sat down before he could see your expression change. For the rest of the morning, he only spoke to you about work. You had thought that was what you wanted, but the distance felt far worse when he was the one maintaining it.
Your first training session left you unable to lift your arms comfortably the following morning. It was an unpromising start, especially when you had arrived believing that your earlier experience would make returning to it relatively straightforward.
You had handled a sword before. Among the Vila in your family, it would have been stranger if you hadn’t. But knowing what a movement has to look like was very different from being able to carry it through when someone was doing their best to knock you off balance. Your instructor discovered that distinction almost immediately, and your shoulder suffered for it.
You returned anyway.
Training gave your evenings a purpose that didn’t depend on whether Mitya wanted to spend them with you. You had somewhere to go after work, something to prepare for when you got home, and enough physical exhaustion to make lying awake considerably less appealing. For a while, that was sufficient. Then, gradually, you began to enjoy it.
You liked improving at something you couldn’t think your way through from a chair. You liked the moment a movement finally became natural, when you no longer had to remind yourself where to place your feet or how to recover after a mistake. The prospect of joining the Druzhna grew into more than an excuse to leave, and eventually, you filled out the application.
You continued attending training while keeping up with your work at the Commission. When Mitya noticed the bandage around your palm, you told him it was nothing.
He looked at your hand, then at you. “That’s quite a lot of bandage for nothing.”
“It’s a scrape,” you replied, lowering your wrist toward the desk.
“I gathered that. I was asking whether it hurts.”
You hadn’t realized he had moved closer until his shadow fell across the page. He leaned slightly to see where the wrapping disappeared beneath your sleeve, concern drawing his brows together.
“Here, let me look. If it’s rubbing when you write, we can—”
You pulled your hand back before he could touch it. Mitya stopped, and the silence afterward made you feel crueler than anything you might have said.
You could have explained that you had already seen to it, that someone at the training hall had shown you how to wrap it properly. Instead, you lowered your sleeve and returned your hand to the desk.
“It’s been taken care of.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He straightened, although he didn’t immediately move away. For a few seconds, he seemed to be considering something more difficult to ask. “You know you can tell me things, don’t you?”
“I know.” You kept your eyes on the paper, unwilling to look up and see what your answer had done to him.
Apparently, that was all you intended to say. After a moment, he went back to his desk, and you waited until he was occupied before flexing your injured fingers beneath the table. The movement stung, but the ache in your chest was worse.
By the time the appointment was confirmed, you had been training for several months.
The letter arrived while Mitya was out of the laboratory. You read it twice, then set it beside your notebook and spent the next hour pretending to work. You had wanted this, and you still wanted it, but that didn’t make telling him any easier.
He returned carrying a folder and talking to someone in the corridor. You heard him laugh before he appeared in the doorway, his expression still relaxed as he came toward the desk.
“There you are. I was hoping you’d still be here. We finally have the figures from—”
He noticed the letter in your hand and slowed beside you. “What’s that?”
“My appointment.” You held it out before you could decide to wait until tomorrow.
Mitya took it, glanced at the heading, and went still. You watched his eyes move down the page before he looked up, then down again, as though there might be a line he had missed.
“The Druzhna? You’re joining them?”
“Yes. I’ve spoken to the Commission about the handover. I’ll finish here at the end of next week.”
“Next week?” His voice rose a little on the question, and you folded your hands in front of you to stop yourself from reaching for the letter.
“The records are almost ready. I’ll make sure there’s a copy of everything you need, and I can go through the unfinished work before—”
“Wait, please. You’re getting rather far ahead of me.”
He put the folder down without looking where it went. One corner caught against the edge of another stack, sending a few pages sliding across the desk, but neither of you reached for them.
“How long have you been planning this?”
“A few months,” you admitted, keeping your voice as calm as you could.
Mitya stared at you before his gaze dropped to your hand.
“The training. That’s what you’ve been doing?”
You nodded, and he let out a slow breath. For a moment, he looked away, pressing his lips together as though he didn’t trust the first thing he wanted to say. You waited with your stomach twisting, wishing he would respond while dreading what you might hear.
When he faced you again, the surprise had settled into something more difficult to look at.
“I wish you’d told me.”
“It wasn’t certain,” you replied, although the explanation already sounded inadequate.
“You could have told me that too.”
You could hear the restraint in his voice now. He was trying to make this an ordinary conversation, trying not to let you see how abruptly it had unsettled him. That made your own composure feel mean.
“I didn’t think there was anything to discuss until the decision was made.”
“I’m not asking why you didn’t let me make the decision.” He spoke a little too quickly, then stopped and lowered his voice. “I know it’s yours. I know you don’t need my permission. But you’ve been working toward this for months, and all that time I’ve been sitting across from you, asking how your day was, wondering why you seemed so tired…”
You looked down, unable to bear the disappointment in his expression.
“Mitya, I wasn’t hiding it to spite you.”
“I didn’t say you were.” He waited for you to offer something more, but you couldn’t find an explanation that didn’t lead him toward the truth.
Eventually, he drew the chair out and sat down. It was such a weary movement that you felt your throat tighten.
“Do you still enjoy the research?” he asked.
You considered lying. It might have made this simpler if you could tell him you had grown to dislike the work, that the laboratory had become unbearable for reasons that had nothing to do with him.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then why—”
“I enjoy the training too,” you said before he could finish, holding tightly to the one explanation you could give him honestly.
Mitya closed his mouth. You watched him look at the appointment letter again, watched the effort it took for him to set his own feelings aside long enough to read what it actually meant for you. When he handed it back, his fingers were careful around the edges.
“Congratulations. I mean that. You must have worked very hard.”
The kindness nearly broke your composure. You took the letter and held it against your side, afraid that looking at him for too long would make it impossible to keep your voice steady.
“Thank you.”
Mitya gave a small nod, but he didn’t return to his folder.
“I would have liked to know,” he added. “That’s all.”
You had no answer you could bear to say aloud.
On your last evening at the Commission, he offered to walk with you.
Your belongings fit into one box and a bag, which seemed terribly little for the amount of time you had spent there. Mitya stood beside the desk while you checked the drawers, keeping his hands in his pockets as though he had already decided you wouldn’t let him help.
“You don’t have to carry all of that yourself,” he said.
“It isn’t heavy.” You shifted the box against your side, hoping he would accept the answer.
“That wasn’t quite what I meant.”
You looked at him then. He was trying to smile, and the effort made you want to put the box down.
“I thought we could walk for a while,” he continued. “You could tell me about the new work. Or we could talk about something else, if you’ve already had enough questions about it.”
You tightened your hold beneath the box.
“I’d rather go alone.”
He had heard those words from you before. This time, he didn’t ask whether you were sure. He simply nodded and said, “All right.”
You waited for him to move aside, then hated yourself when he did.
At the door, you turned back to say goodbye. Mitya was still standing beside your empty desk, looking at the drawer you had left slightly open. He looked up as soon as you spoke.
“Good night.”
His expression changed just enough for you to understand that he had been hoping for something more. Still, he returned the farewell, and you closed the door carefully behind you.
Mitya had always known how to occupy himself.
There was usually more work than time, and on the occasions when he managed to escape both his schedule and the people responsible for enforcing it, he rarely struggled to find something interesting to do. Your departure didn’t make any of those things disappear. He still had colleagues, still enjoyed performances, and could still become so absorbed in an unfamiliar idea that he forgot what he had intended to do a moment earlier.
But there were places in the day where he kept expecting you.
He would look up after reading something peculiar, already preparing to tell you about it. Sometimes he reached the first few words before remembering, and the empty desk made him feel foolish. Eventually, it wasn’t empty anymore, which ought to have helped.
Instead, he caught himself watching another researcher move the chair to a different angle and felt an unreasonable urge to explain that you liked it nearer the window.
He didn’t, of course. He welcomed the new colleague, went through the notes you had prepared, and answered questions about the shared work. You had been thorough, almost painfully so. There was a written explanation for every procedure you had thought somebody might need, allowing him to find answers to everything except why you no longer wanted to speak to him.
Valeriy noticed the change without seeming particularly pleased to have noticed it.
“You’ve read that page already.”
Mitya glanced up from the report, distracted enough that he had to consider the remark before answering.
“Have I?”
“Twice.”
“Oh.” He looked back at the page, recognizing the paragraph with an uncomfortable little jolt. “Yes. Apparently I have.”
Valeriy remained in the doorway, watching him for another moment.
“If you need a break, take one before you spend the rest of the afternoon doing the same thing.”
“I thought you preferred knowing where I was,” Mitya replied, attempting a little of his usual ease.
“I can know where you are without making you sit in that chair.”
Mitya almost smiled, but the expression faded when he glanced toward your old desk. A break would have been easier if he knew where he wanted to go.
The theater still gave him something to think about. Vodyanitsa still greeted him warmly and wanted to know what he thought of her performances. He listened more carefully these days, unwilling to let another conversation end with the discovery that he had been somewhere else in his own head.
Yet afterward, when he heard a comment you would have enjoyed or disagreed with an interpretation he knew you’d argue over, he found himself wanting to turn toward you.
One evening, Vodyanitsa followed his glance to the empty chair beside him.
“Were you expecting someone?”
“No. Sorry.” He moved his cup out of the way, although she hadn’t asked him to, and tried to give her his full attention.
Vodyanitsa watched him for a moment before sitting down.
“I saw your friend the other day. She looks very different in uniform.”
Mitya leaned forward before he could stop himself.
“You did? Where?”
“Near the square. She was with some of the Druzhna.” Vodyanitsa paused, taking in how quickly his attention had returned. “She seemed well.”
“That’s good.” The relief in his voice was difficult to disguise, though he tried to make his next words sound more casual. “I haven’t had much chance to ask her myself. Her schedule’s quite different now.”
“Is that all it is?” she asked, her expression growing more thoughtful.
Mitya looked down at his hands. Vodyanitsa didn’t press immediately, allowing the silence between them to remain while the restaurant continued its evening business. Crockery sounded against tables, and conversation rose and fell around the warm little space they occupied.
At last, he shook his head.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You could have told me.”
He gave a brief, unhappy laugh.
“I’ve been saying that rather a lot myself.”
That brought a softer expression to her face. She watched him worry at his hands for another moment before asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Mitya considered the question. He could explain the sequence of events: the declined invitations, the book you wouldn’t take, the way you had started looking past him when he spoke. He could tell her precisely when he had stopped believing you were simply busy.
He didn’t know how to explain what it felt like to be avoided by someone he still looked for without thinking.
“I miss her,” he said eventually. “And every time I try to tell her, she leaves before I find a way to say it properly.”
Vodyanitsa was quiet for a moment before reaching for the teapot.
“Stay a little longer. You can at least finish your tea.”
He did, though even as he settled back into the conversation, he still wished he could tell you about his day.
Your first year with the Druzhna passed quickly enough that, sometimes, you struggled to believe how much had changed.
You learned the routines of a new workplace, the preferences of people you trusted with your safety, and which parts of your equipment would become uncomfortable after hours in the cold. You made mistakes and learned from those too, gradually finding confidence in work that had once left you uncertain.
Your research experience helped in ways you hadn’t expected. You were patient with an unfamiliar problem, careful about assumptions, and willing to admit when an answer required a second look. That patience served you well in the field.
On one escort assignment, you noticed something wrong with the route before the convoy reached it. On another, you kept your head when an attack scattered the rear of the formation, helping the others regroup instead of rushing forward alone. You grew stronger and more confident, until people began asking for you by name.
Vesna took notice, though her approval came with rather less solemnity than you had once imagined.
“I hear you’ve been making yourself useful,” she remarked after watching you finish a practice bout. “Good. I was beginning to worry you only enjoyed knocking people over.”
You lowered your sword, still catching your breath.
“I wasn’t aware the two were mutually exclusive.”
Her smile widened at your answer.
“Oh, excellent. You do have a sense of humor!”
You found yourself smiling back before you remembered to stop. That happened more often now. You could be comfortable with the others, laugh over an unappetizing meal, or listen to someone complain about a difficult patrol. Sometimes you stayed behind to help a newer recruit with a move they couldn’t quite manage.
Then Mitya appeared in a corridor, and everything in you went still.
He noticed that too. He noticed far more than you wished he would.
When you began leaving the Armory Palace by a different entrance after official visits, he caught you near the rear courtyard.
“Ah, there you are.”
You stopped so abruptly that the papers beneath your arm shifted. Mitya glanced at them, then back at you.
“I thought I might find you this way. You’ve become rather difficult to catch after a meeting.”
“I have other duties.”
“Yes, I know. I read your last report.”
He said it without accusation, and for a moment, his expression brightened with something you recognized too well.
“The escort assignment. You handled it well. I wanted to congratulate you in person.”
“Thank you.” You adjusted your grip on the papers, searching for a polite way to end the conversation before he could ask anything more.
He watched the movement, then stepped slightly aside so you could continue down the path. Instead of remaining behind, he fell into step beside you.
“I was hoping you might have time to eat before you go back.”
“I don’t have time today.”
“Then perhaps another day,” he suggested. “I don’t mind arranging it in advance.”
“There’s no need, Mitya.”
He fell quiet for several steps. The courtyard gate stood ahead of you, opening onto a street busy with deliveries and people making their way home before the evening grew colder.
Mitya spoke just as you reached it.
“Do you want me to believe you’re busy, or would you rather I understood that you don’t want to see me?”
Your breath caught, but you kept walking. He said your name, and when you didn’t stop, his footsteps quickened behind you.
“Wait. Please, I’m not trying to start an argument.”
You knew he wasn’t. That didn’t make it easier to turn around.
A cart moved through the junction ahead, and you crossed before it, using the narrow space between the passing traffic and a group of pedestrians to put distance between you. Mitya called again, but you reached the corner before he could catch up.
By the time you stopped beneath the shelter of a closed shopfront, your heart was beating hard enough to make you feel ill. You stood there with the reports pressed against your chest, listening for footsteps you were terrified of hearing.
When none came, you felt worse.
The next time you met, he didn’t begin with an excuse.
You had just finished a briefing at Druzhna headquarters. Most of the others had already left, and you were fastening your coat when you noticed him waiting near the doors. Mitya straightened as soon as he saw you, and you considered returning to the meeting room.
He saw the thought cross your face.
“Please don’t.”
You went still, your hands resting against the unfinished fastening.
“I’m not here about a report, and I haven’t brought you anything,” he continued. “I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. Can you stay?”
There was no easy way to pretend you hadn’t understood. You lowered your hands from your coat and made yourself face him properly.
“What do you want to talk about?”
He gave a small, strained smile.
“Well, I’d like to ask how you’ve been. But I expect you’ll say you’re fine, and then we’ll both stand here knowing that isn’t really the conversation we need to have.”
You looked toward the window, where snow had gathered along the lower edge of the glass. The hall was warm enough that your collar had begun to feel uncomfortable, but you couldn’t bring yourself to loosen it.
Mitya waited until you looked back at him.
“I know you’re avoiding me,” he said. “I’ve known for a while. What I don’t understand is why.”
“You haven’t done anything,” you replied, though you knew it wouldn’t be enough this time.
“Then help me understand.”
His voice was still gentle, but there was frustration beneath it now, made more noticeable by the effort he was putting into keeping it hidden.
“You used to talk to me. You used to tell me when something annoyed you, even when it was something I’d done. Now I can’t ask whether you’ve had a good day without feeling as though I’ve made it worse by being there.”
You felt your throat tighten.
“That isn’t what I’m trying to do.”
“I didn’t think it was.” He paused, watching you carefully. “But I don’t know what you are trying to do.”
You folded your arms, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. You could have ended it there by saying you were tired, or that this wasn’t the right time. You had become very practiced at leaving before a conversation could reach anything you didn’t want him to see.
This time, he looked too tired for you to pretend it wasn’t costing him anything.
“You should spend your evenings with people who make you happy,” you said.
Mitya blinked, confusion crossing his face.
“I’m trying to.”
The answer was so immediate that you had to look away. You could feel how easily you wanted to believe him, which only made you more determined not to.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
You wished he would stop asking so patiently. It was much harder to remain cold when he gave you nothing to defend yourself against.
“Vodyanitsa,” you said at last. “Your other friends. You don’t need to keep coming after me because we used to work together.”
His expression changed slowly.
“Is that what you think this is?”
You pressed your lips together, unable to answer without revealing more than you intended. Mitya glanced aside, taking a moment before he spoke again.
“I enjoy spending time with Vodyanitsa. She’s my friend. That doesn’t explain why you won’t let me take you to dinner.”
“I know,” you said, holding your arms a little more tightly against yourself.
“Do you?”
You looked back at him then, the question catching somewhere tender enough to make your voice unsteady.
“Yes, Mitya. I know you haven’t done anything wrong. I know you never promised me anything, and I’m not asking you to apologize for having a life outside the laboratory.”
He opened his mouth, but you continued before you lost the nerve.
“I just couldn’t keep sitting there and waiting for you to want me around. I didn’t like what it was doing to me.”
His face lost its remaining color.
“You were never waiting for that.”
You gave a faint shake of your head.
“Please don’t say that.”
“Don’t say what?” he asked, sounding genuinely uncertain now.
“Something kind because you feel sorry for me.”
For the first time, he looked openly hurt.
“I’m not doing that...”
You couldn’t make yourself believe him without also wanting far too much. That was the difficulty he couldn’t see. You had never been capable of accepting a little affection from him and leaving it at that. You carried it home, thought about it when you should have been sleeping, and let an ordinary touch become something you remembered for weeks.
You had built an entire private life out of things he might not remember doing. Walking away had been the only way you knew to stop adding to it.
Mitya took a breath before trying again.
“When you left, I thought we could still see each other. I knew it would be different, but I didn’t think…” He broke off, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “I didn’t think I was going to lose you altogether…”
You looked at his hand because looking at his face had become unbearable.
“I still want to tell you things,” he continued. “Something happens, and I think you’ll find it interesting, or funny, or you’ll disagree with me and explain why. Then I remember I can’t simply turn around and ask.”
His voice caught slightly, and you felt your fingers tighten against your sleeves.
“And when I do see you, you look as though you’re trying to work out how quickly you can leave.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, the words barely leaving your throat.
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want—”
He stopped, and for a moment, he seemed unable to find the words. You watched him swallow, watched the loose end of his scarf shift against his sleeve as he lowered his hand.
“I want you to let me try,” he said at last. “Without deciding beforehand that I couldn’t possibly mean it.”
You nearly went to him.
The movement started before you had made a decision: a small shift of your weight, your arms beginning to loosen. Mitya noticed, and hope appeared in his expression so quickly that it frightened you.
If you let yourself believe him now, you would have to trust more than what he said in this hall. You would have to trust the next day, and the one after it. You would have to stop bracing yourself every time he looked happy somewhere you weren’t.
You didn’t know how to do that.
“I can’t,” you whispered, tightening your arms around yourself again.
His lips parted, and he took a moment before answering.
“You don’t have to answer everything tonight. We could just talk. We could start there.”
You shook your head, and the effort of keeping your face still finally began to fail.
“Please, Mitya. I can’t do this right now.”
He looked at you for a long moment before nodding. It was such a small movement, but you saw what it took from him.
“All right.”
You stepped past him before he could see the tears gathering in your eyes. At the foot of the stairs, you paused with your hand against the railing. He was still close enough that you could turn around. You could say his name, and he would look at you, and perhaps you could admit that none of this had made you stop wanting him.
Instead, you climbed, and he didn’t follow.
Inside your quarters, you shut the door and stood with your hand still wrapped around the handle. Your coat was too warm, your gloves were damp, and somewhere on the desk lay everything you needed to prepare for tomorrow. You knew you should move toward it, but you couldn’t seem to make yourself let go of the door.
When footsteps sounded outside, you straightened before you could stop yourself. For a few seconds, you listened with your hand against the latch, hoping he would knock.
The footsteps continued down the corridor, and you stayed by the door long after they were gone.