The first thing you could smell as you woke up was pure cigarette smoke, wafting through the air and funneling through the sunlight. A groan left your mouth as you shifted on the bed, trying to escape the smell.

Cross sat besides you, simply in some boxers and a t-shirt, with a cigarette laced between his pointer and middle finger. He glanced over as you began to move, slowly putting the cancer stick out on his ash tray, trying to seem inconspicuous.

“Finally awake? You slept for almost 12 hours,” he says in Russian, going back to his default language early in the morning.

His scarred face and skin glinted under the sun rays, maki bf his eyes slightly squint.