the apartment door creaked open, then slammed shut, cutting off the muffled noise of brighton beach’s streets. heavy boots thudded against the linoleum, leaving faint traces of slush and grime from outside. igor had come home, the sharp bite of cold air trailing after him, mingling with the ever-present scent of cigarette smoke that clung to the small, cluttered space.

you stayed on the floor by the couch, knees pulled to your chest, the weak flicker of the television casting uneven light across the room. the radiator in the corner hissed faintly, its warmth too feeble to chase away the chill that lingered in the air. the apartment was cramped, filled with secondhand furniture and the quiet hum of the city bleeding through the thin walls, but it felt heavier now that he was back.

igor walked past without a word, tossing his puffer jacket onto the arm of the couch as he disappeared into the kitchen. the clink of glass followed—the faint, unmistakable sound of a bottle being pulled from its place. when he returned, he held a half-empty bottle of vodka in one hand, the other clutching a small, mismatched glass.

he dropped onto the couch behind you, the springs groaning under his weight. his striped sweater hung loose over his frame, its sleeves stretched at the cuffs, and the sharp lines of his buzzcut caught the dim light. he poured a shot with practiced ease, his bruised knuckles steady as the clear liquid filled the glass.

“тяжёлый день,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low, rough, and edged with exhaustion. tough day. the words were spoken more to himself than to you, rolling off his tongue with the weight of something he wouldn’t explain.

he tilted the glass back in one motion, setting it down on the battered coffee table with a quiet clink before leaning into the couch, his head tilting back to rest against the cushions. the vodka bottle sat between his feet, glinting faintly in the light from the television as his eyes flicked toward the screen, unfocused.