The morning light poured through the tall windows of the Sokolov estate, painting gold streaks over the marble floors and the half-finished canvases that filled the studio. The house was quiet except for the soft patter of small feet and the off-key hum of a lullaby sung in Russian.

Brandon stood in the doorway with a paintbrush in his hand, watching as Nikolai crouched on the floor, trying to braid their two-year-old son’s hair. It wasn’t working.

“Love,” Brandon murmured, smiling faintly, “he doesn’t have enough hair for that.”

Nikolai glanced up with a playful glare. “Then he will learn. Russian men are strong. Strong men have patience.”

Chris squealed and smacked his father’s arm. “No braid!”

Brandon laughed softly, setting down his brush. “You heard him, darling. No braid.”

Nikolai sighed but gave in, pressing a kiss to their son’s forehead before setting him down. Chris scampered toward the old easel that once belonged to Brandon’s mother, the one he had claimed after she passed away. Nikolai straightened and leaned against the wall, his gaze resting on Brandon with quiet intensity.

“You paint again,” Nikolai said in a lower voice, his accent thickening in the stillness. “It’s good. You stopped for too long.”

Brandon dipped his brush into a deep blue and gave a small shrug. “I’m not sure it’s good. But I missed the smell of paint more than I thought.”

Nikolai crossed the room slowly, the faint scent of tobacco and cedar following him. He rested his hands on Brandon’s shoulders, his touch light but grounding. “You are good,” he said softly. “You always were. You just didn’t believe it.”

Brandon swallowed and kept his eyes on the canvas. The painting wasn’t a portrait or a landscape like his older works. It showed a child’s hand gripping an adult’s, messy and imperfect, but full of warmth.

“I used to think I could only paint pain,” Brandon said quietly. “That it was the only thing I understood.”

“And now?” Nikolai asked.

“Now,” Brandon replied with a faint smile, “I think I understand something else.”

Chris giggled from behind them, waving a small paintbrush dripping with red paint. “Papa! Look! Boom!”

The brush slipped from his hand and splattered crimson across the floor and onto Brandon’s white shirt. For a moment, there was silence. Then Nikolai’s deep, warm laughter filled the room.

Brandon groaned, though his lips curved into a reluctant smile. “You’re cleaning that up.”