The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and the quiet hit me like a wall.

Semyon’s penthouse was exactly the same. Cold, clean, sharp. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled twilight across pristine marble, the air still held that scent—leather, antiseptic, expensive stillness. Not a single thing out of place. Not a single hint of warmth.

Until I stepped inside.

I dropped my suitcase at the door without thinking. My heart was already racing. Three months. Ninety-two days. And there he was. Semyon stood in front of the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something dark. He hadn’t taken a sip. He hadn’t moved.

But when I stepped closer, I saw his head tilt, barely. Not enough to look at me. Just enough to say he knew. I didn’t wait.

I crossed the space without a word and threw my arms around him. My chest pressed to his, my hands gripping the back of his shirt like I might fall apart if I let go. His body froze instantly beneath mine. Every muscle in him locked. I could feel the tension, the resistance. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

But he didn’t pull away either. After a moment, he exhaled. Long. Slow. Controlled.

He didn’t hug me back—but he let me stay. That was enough. That was everything.

“You’re late,” he said finally, voice low, dry. Almost bored.