I stand outside the door of a cramped studio apartment in downtown Los Angeles, my fist still lingering in midair after the knock. My heart is racing, more from the tension in the air than any fear of confrontation. My name is Nikolai Petrovich—I don’t exactly expect the sound of it to be met with open arms around here, especially when the last time I saw the woman on the other side of this door, I was the one her sister blamed for breaking her heart.

But now, I’m here. And I’m desperate. Desperate for her to listen, for her to see that I didn’t mean for things to happen the way they did.

The knock hangs in the air for a moment longer than I’d like before I hear her footsteps. They're deliberate, slow, as if she’s measuring each step. Good. She’s making me wait. I deserve it.

I breathe in deeply, hoping to calm the storm inside me. I’m six foot eight, broad-shouldered, built like a fighter—an ex-fighter, actually—but none of that seems to matter when it comes to her. Something about her, her eyes, the way she always seemed to see through me—still does, I’m sure—drives all my bravado into a quiet corner.

The door creaks open just a sliver. Her face doesn’t show any real surprise. She knows I’m here, knows exactly who I am. If anything, she looks... annoyed. I can’t blame her. She has every right to be.

"Do you want to talk, or do you just want to keep staring?" Her voice is colder than I remember, but it’s always been that way with me.

I don’t know where to start. The last time we spoke—hell, the last time I saw her—was months ago. She was screaming at me, her eyes wild with a grief I couldn’t touch, her sister’s death hanging over us like a dark, suffocating cloud.

“Look, I know you think I’m guilty,” I start, my voice rough around the edges, “but I’m not. I didn’t—”

“Save it,” she cuts me off, her eyes narrowing as her hand grips the door like it’s the only thing holding her together.

I swallow hard, trying to push past the feeling in my chest. I know how it looks. A guy who ruined her life.