Morning at the estate

Not a house — a creature.
Large, ancient, having survived more than one winter and more than one owner.
It spread itself around me in a soft, massive way,
like a beast that had finally recognized its own —
by voice, by footsteps, by breathing.
I smiled, and the beast came alive.
It snorted in its sleep —
deeply, animal-like.
Hot steam burst from within,
shifted the snow on the eaves,
and heavy slabs,
with a dull thud,
came crashing down.
“Damn…”
one of the boys below managed to swear
before the snow collapsed straight onto him —
up to the shoulders,
over the hat,
right onto his morning dignity.
I couldn’t help it
and giggled.
Such a hooligan.
It went quiet again,
satisfied,
as if everything had been done correctly:
stretched itself,
reminded the world of its presence,
and allowed the world
to be alive.
Outside, dry branches of vineyard and rhododendron
had spread across the entire space,
crawled, intertwined,
like old hands —
sinewy, wise, having endured much.
They cling to the roof, to the walls,
embrace the stone,
hold it the way one holds
someone dear.
In winter, the beast sheds.
It gets a little cold —
not from the cold itself,
but from time.
Snow so carefully
covers everything around:
an old friend
lying down on ledges,
filling corners,
softening sharpness of lines,
muting the scale.
And the beast shook itself again —
this time consciously,
lazily,
the way only those do
who know their own weight.
A lot came off the roof at once:
snow moved in a dense wave,
knocked five people off their feet,
mixed laughter, swearing, and white dust,
for a second erasing
the boundary between duty and play.
“Careful…”
someone said, already laughing,
climbing out of the drift,
shaking themselves off,
as if it weren’t a fall,
but part of a morning ritual.
Snow here is not empty.
It is a blanket.
It is a gesture.
And inside —
the air is heavy, domestic.
Warm breathing from its chest.
The smell of stone, wood, fire,
of a long life in which everything has already happened,
and therefore there is no need to hurry.
Here one can disappear.
And here —
be found.
In this dense silence
I suddenly remembered
how all of this began.

With Nate, everything was exactly the way it always is with Nate.
I approached him the way I approach fire:
both warmth and danger,
and I know perfectly well that he reads every one of my thoughts,
especially when I want something.
With this extraordinary man, we have a special connection.
“Nate…” I begin innocently.
He immediately raised an eyebrow.
This man figured out the main formula a long time ago:
if I start with a soft “Nate,”
then something either outrageously expensive
or outrageously reckless is about to happen.
Sometimes — both at once.
“What do you need, sweetheart?”
His voice is already restrained,
as if he’s preparing to lose in advance.
He leaned back in the chair of his enormous office.
I sat down on his lap,
wrapped my arms around his neck and, stealthily, like a cat,
ran a finger along his collar.
“Just a small house,” I said.
“Well… small. Forest, views, a fireplace, a garden… a couple of hectares…”
He crooked a smile.
“I need space for the children…” I whisper,
barely separating words from breath.
“Besides, the house is sort of small-big,
so in the right wing we’ll open the kindergarten…”
I kiss him at the corner of his lips —
not insisting,
more like marking the thought,
the way one places a bookmark in a book.
“The children will always be nearby.
And animals.
And… well, you know, Nate.”
Outside, someone knocks down snow again —
a dull удар,
then another.
The house answers with a quiet creak,
as if turning onto its other side.
And I feel how he begins to give in —
not all at once,
millimeter by millimeter.
How the muscles in his back
ease their tension slightly,
as if he’s no longer carrying the weight of the world
alone.
How his shoulders drop.
On an exhale he didn’t even notice himself, his hands find my waist on their own. He stays silent.
My breathing slows and almost brushes his neck, slides over his skin, stops right there where his pulse gives away more than words ever could.
“Nate, sweetheart.”
I kiss him now not at the corner of his lips, but lower — softly, patiently — as if testing how ready he is to stop resisting.
At that moment the house falls completely still. The snow outside the windows no longer falls, footsteps fade, even the air seems to listen.
I breathe closer, a little warmer, a little slower, and kiss his neck the way one kisses not to ask, but to reassure.
He doesn’t move right away. He only tightens his grip, as if choosing whether to hold or to let go.
“Small-big?” he exhales. “Show me what kind of house you mean.”
I open the tablet. The screen flashes cold with plans and outlines.
He looks. Exhales slowly. Closes his eyes. Rubs the bridge of his nose — that very gesture which always means he already understands everything, but is still holding on.
“Sweetheart…” His voice is lower than usual. “This isn’t a house. This is territory. This, sweetheart, is a vast territory. This is an estate.”
“Sweetheart…” I slip my thin fingers into his hair, slowly, knowing exactly how he feels this. “Nate. My beloved.”
He holds back for a second. Then a groan — quiet, angry at himself.
“Beloved…”
He growls, giving in.
The house behind our backs creaks softly, as if in agreement. Morning continues down the corridors; somewhere a door slams far away, not disturbing us.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I whisper, already knowing the answer.
His forehead presses to my temple, his breathing warm, heavy.
“Kitten… close the door.”
What could be more pleasant than negotiations with Nate?
And Jonathan… oh, Jonathan — that stern migraine in human form.
With him, nothing could be simple. You couldn’t sit on his lap. You couldn’t knock a decision loose with a kiss. His body doesn’t respond to impulse — it responds to calculation.
With him, you needed tactics, proof, and my signature charm, which he resists for exactly five seconds. Sometimes four and a half.
I walked into his office as if I’d come to discuss exchange rates or tax reform. Back straight. Chin steady. Steps even. That version of me who knows how to sit through meetings without rolling her eyes.
Though we both knew that just yesterday I laughed so hard he grabbed the desk, trying not to give himself away.
“Jonathan. We need a house.”
He didn’t lift his head right away. First his eyes. Then his neck. Then everything else, as if the body was catching up with the thought.
“Nazokat…” he began in his CFO voice — the voice capable of cutting budgets even for angels in heaven and making them apologize.
“Damn.”
And I broke immediately. Not carefully. Not beautifully. Straight away — head-on, to the heart, to the weak spot.
“Well, Jonathan… please… please… pleeeease…”
I took a step closer. Then another one. Close enough for him to feel the pressure — the way children pressure their parents.
“Look… just think about it… how happy we’ll all be there… the kindergarten… the children… come on, Jonathaaaaan…”
He closed his eyes. Just for a second. But that second was enough to understand — it was hard for him.
He exhaled through his nose. His shoulders tensed. His fingers clenched into a fist, then loosened.
“Maintaining an estate like that is very, very expensive,” he said, as if announcing the beginning of a war.
Oh my God. Jonathan at work and Jonathan at home are two completely different creatures.
The first is silicon. Cold calculation. Spreadsheets instead of nerves.
The second is a soft, almost domestic lion who furrows his brow when I’m in a bad mood and always asks, “Have you eaten?”
“Where will you get the staff?”
“How will you manage the accounts?”
“Who will run the land?”

“Electricity?”
“Security?”
“Insurance?”
Each question felt like a step backward. Like an attempt to restore distance.
Oh no. He had switched into CFO mode. Financial genius mode.
“Go on, start crying,” Hades drawled lazily inside me. “He won’t last.”
“Right,” I answered.
My lower lip betrayed me — just slightly. Exactly enough for the financial genius to suddenly remember that he was also a human being.
His eyes grew damp, but the tears didn’t fall. I held them at the edge — the way one holds balance between numbers and life.
“You…” I said, tilting my head slightly to the side. Angelic face activated.
He frowned.
“Me?”
“Well who else, if not you? You’re my Jonathan…”
I threw myself around his neck — sharply, warmly. My arms wrapped around his shoulders, my body pressed against his, as if I were truly trying to bend his will physically.
He froze. His hands hung in the air, unsure whether to push me away or pull me in.
“You’re the most reliable. The smartest. You always know what to do… I trust you more than anyone.”
His breathing faltered. I felt it against my shoulder. He looked at me as if he were trying not to melt.
I laughed softly, almost into his neck.
“Come on, Jonathaaaaan… come on, Jonathannn… pleeeease…”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
And somewhere deep inside — beneath the suit, beneath the status, beneath the numbers — his heart quietly dropped.
“I… um…” he muttered.
That was it. Done.
Then came twenty minutes of suffering. Titanic labor — for me.
He talked. A lot. In detail. With numbers, risks, scenarios. I nodded. Sat straight. Not once did I ask, “And what is this even about?”
Even though I understood almost nothing.
But I was a heroine. A real one.
Then came two weeks of discussions. His spreadsheets. His audits. His constant, “Let’s recalculate.”
And finally — the documents on the table. He looked at them the way one looks at a diagnosis.
“Considering Earth Angels…” he said heavily. “The amount will be astronomical. Inspections. Lawyers. Approvals…”
“Um… sweetheart, but is this doable?” I asked in the thinnest voice possible.
He rubbed his forehead. For a long time.
“Yes… but it will be very difficult. We’ll have to—”
“Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!” I jumped up from my chair.
“Nazokat…” he tried to keep a serious tone. “The team. Budget discipline. Reports. Every week.”
“I promise!” I kissed him on the cheek.
“Um… actually, I was involved in this too,” Nate smirked.
I immediately hung off him, showering him with kisses.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“Boys, you’re the best in the world.”
“Me too!” Cody shouted.
I kissed her. Sophie. And Ivy.
That’s how the estate came into being — that satisfied beast I once wanted. And the men who love me came to terms with the fact that my desires are a law of nature.
And the Aristocrat — that’s a separate story.
He didn’t need any convincing.
The moment we appeared on the driveway, he froze. Right in mid-step. With his hand suspended in the air. With his mouth open.
The pause was perfect. Calibrated. Theatrical.
And then he burst into tears.
Not quietly. Not nobly. But immediately — loud, lush, sobbing with his whole chest, choking on tears, clutching his heart, taking a step back, then another, as if seeing the lost love of his life.
“I… I was here as a little boy… Gods, what cursed happiness… This… this is fate…”
“Are we going to have to listen to this for long?” the Adventuress asked. Jonathan adjusted his cufflinks. “Let him finish his performance already.”
Five minutes later, his tragedy dried up as abruptly as it had begun. He straightened up, wiped away the tears, and said confidently:
“So, are we taking it?”
The Adventuress kicked him hard.
“What?” he snorted, grabbing his shin. “I might be a future star of the stage!”
I smiled to myself. It’s wonderful that I managed to persuade them after all. It’s wonderful that they are all here.
Breakfast.

A few thin strands fell at my temples, as if the air itself had decided to let them go, and my thoughts returned from the past.
Today I’m wearing a beet-colored cardigan — fluffy, warm. Winter allows me to wear it more often, and I almost purr with pleasure.
My hair is gathered into a French twist. Below — a pencil skirt and my inevitable heels.
I sit and breathe, and everything inside me is alive, wrapped in a quiet, dense happiness.
The long breakfast table turned out especially cozy this time — and at the same time indecently funny, reflecting everyone like a mirror through dishes and surrounding objects.
Calm, balanced shades — gray for Nate
and light beige for Jonathan, as if even their plates observe discipline and deadlines. What can you say — serious men, big bosses.
And then — a blow to the eyes, like a fanfare: the Aristocrat’s red, absolutely festive mug. He lives every day with the mindset: “What if today is Christmas? I must be ready.” That red is his personal holiday — sparkling, daring, and endlessly sincere in its joy.
Then comes my favorite chaos. Napkins sewn by children’s hands — sewn crookedly, colored as if the artist had been jumping on a trampoline at the moment of inspiration. Their little faces are ridiculous, their eyes living completely separate lives: one looking at me, the other as if trying to escape into a parallel universe.
The Adventuress has a bright plate painted by children, and of course she chose the most unhinged one: a cat with penguin wings, flowers drawn as if by someone who was eating and laughing at the same time, and in the corner a child’s inscription: “This is Mom on a bicycle.”
The Adventuress looks at the drawing as if it were Banksy.
“Genius. Pure genius,” she declares, without blinking, and serves herself exactly twice as much fruit as everyone else.
Sophie has a neat little clay plate, along the edge of which a child yesterday drew a small lavender sprig. Sophie didn’t wipe the drawing off — on the contrary, she carefully outlined it with a thin cord, like a frame: a quiet “beauty mark,” a sign that she accepted the gift and hid it in her heart.
The Chess Player has her designer set from Matty and Philip. The boys made it themselves: a dark board with a “night” varnish they mixed in a jar, arguing about which shade was closer to a storm. The pieces are a funny duet of work — Matty carved the king with an indecently serious face, and Philip added little swirls of paint to the pawns; they look as if they’re ready to set off on a journey.
The Chess Player always sets the board in front of her the same way — like a small altar — to remember that at home she has two geniuses who can create beauty just like that, between recess and sandwiches.
And what about me?
My own cup is a character all by itself. It looks as if it was squeezed, then someone changed their mind about throwing it away and ceremoniously welcomed it back into the family without explanation. The maker calls it “the dinosaur” and places it so that “he faces the room.” Truth be told, it’s not immediately clear where the face even is — but to hell with it.
The hall is large, with an old, high ceiling where light doesn’t fall but settles slowly, like warm dust. The windows stretch almost floor to ceiling, and the morning sun comes in at an angle, gliding along the long table, catching on the dark wood, lingering on the backs of chairs, like after a breakfast that wasn’t turned into a ceremony.
In the depth of the hall, the fireplace crackles. Quietly. Confidently. The fire there is alive — the logs lie unevenly, one has already settled, another has just caught, and the flame moves, breathes, talks to itself. Sometimes it clicks — briefly — and the warmth from that sound spreads through the room, gathering the space into a single whole.
And everyone present immediately wants to stretch.
Somewhere, a clock ticks softly. Dishes clink dully, without fuss. The floor responds with a gentle echo.
Children run around; of course, they’re already full of everything they managed to steal in the kitchen and are now ready to misbehave. Laughter scatters through the hall, hits the walls, and comes back — a little quieter, a little softer. The knock of heels, the whisper of small socks across the floor, a sharp turn, a squeal — and instant laughter.
Sophie tries not to slip as she passes by with a tray. The floor here is smooth, polished by decades of footsteps, and demands respect. On the tray is something warm and fragrant — probably broth for the children.
Despite their confident “no, we’re full,” she carries it anyway — as if warmth itself insisted on being delivered where it belongs.
Steam rises in a light cloud, touches her cheeks, lingers for a second in the light, and dissolves beneath the ceiling.
I catch her by the elbow — gently, without stopping her stride, just returning her attention for one brief second.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
And the fireplace behind my back answers quietly with a crackle, as if confirming: yes, everything is in its place.
She startles slightly — and then smiles tenderly. I watch her walk away, thinking how wonderfully, how cozily she lives here.
She loves this estate and truly loves taking care of us. I’m happy as an elephant.
Sophie did my hair this morning. She always approaches softly, as if she doesn’t want to spill the morning’s quiet. She lets my hair down, runs her fingers through the roots, checking how I’m breathing from the inside.
She takes a strand, shifts it into her palms so gently. Her movements are slow and careful. The bun forms gradually, strand by strand, and in every motion there is her silence, her care, her small “I want you to have a good day.” Thanks to this kind of care, I’m beautiful every day. And I love this feeling — knowing and feeling that I’m beautiful.
Cody quietly pours me more tea. The cup barely clinks against the saucer — briefly — bringing me back into my body. Warm steam rises, touches my wrist, and morning becomes tangible again.
“It’ll cool,” she says under her breath.
Tea with roses and honey… mmm… I adore it.
The rosebuds haven’t opened yet — tight, stubborn — but the scent is already alive: dense, enveloping, the kind that makes you want to breathe deeper and not hurry anywhere.
It made me think — shouldn’t I be doing this for someone? I don’t know. But I like it: to wake up and get dressed — that’s how I meet the day and celebrate every night.
I catch my reflection out of the corner of my eye, in passing. I smile at myself. Casually. Honestly.
By the way, speaking of “adore.” Where is that hooligan boy who’s been successfully pretending to be an adult for thirty-one years now?
“Guys?” I raise an eyebrow.
No one is listening to me.
The Chess Player is holding the baby, settling her with the confidence used to hold what’s most precious — without showy caution, but with full bodily presence. The two of them lean over the table, studying the objects laid out before them like real artifacts: a spoon, a button, some shiny little stone, a scrap of ribbon.
The baby reaches out her fingers, stops, freezes from the importance of the moment, and the Chess Player waits patiently, without prompting, letting the world reveal itself on its own. Their quiet whispering and brief giggles create around them a small island of concentration.
I don’t even try to look for Roman — I’m sure they’re already off somewhere with the children, running pillow conspiracies, negotiating with imaginary animals, and solving matters far more important than ours.
Jonathan — my dear Jonathan, my right hand — sits a little apart, holding the newspaper as if it weren’t morning reading but a strategic document. He frowns, raises an eyebrow, makes notes in the margins with a pencil, sometimes snorts in displeasure, like someone who already knows how it will end but will still read to the very end.
And the Adventuress and the Aristocrat have settled opposite each other, arguing with such passion as if the fate of the world were at stake, not someone’s personal life.
“No, just look,” the Adventuress gestures. “It’s obvious.”
“The only obvious thing is that you like to make things up,” the Aristocrat counters, leaning back in his chair and pretending he’s not interested at all.
I burst out laughing.
“Got it.”
“Maybe he went out with a dog…” I mutter. “Though… which one? We have five.”
Alright. I won’t panic.
But suddenly I feel cold. I’m still afraid of waking up in the middle of the night and finding that he’s not there, and that all of this is just a dream.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay…” I whisper. “Breathe. Breathe. Come on… breathe.”
I walked over to the windows, trying to see — maybe he was already coming.
And then something fell with a loud hiss.
“AAA!” I screamed.
“Just snow from the roof,” Jonathan said without even lifting his head.
I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to calm down.
And then — BAM — something slammed straight into the glass right in front of me.
“Oh my God!” I shrieked.
“Mom, what is it?” Roman flew out of the hallway. He never misses anything interesting.
“I don’t kn—” I started, and my voice cut off.
Oh God. I looked closer.
Exactly.
It’s Nate. Nate is throwing snowballs at the window.
With force, with a wide swing — as if he’s trying to knock me out of December silence. Snow smacks against the glass, explodes into white sparks, and I see him squinting with laughter, collar pulled up, looking absolutely pleased with life.
I pointed a finger at my temple: “Are you insane?”
And he… he just stood there laughing his head off, like a boy who’s just burned down a school and is now proud of himself.
The Adventuress instantly jumped up beside me. “Get him! Do something to him!”

From the other side Josh burst in, forever glowing as if a spotlight were aimed at him. He’s already pressing his nose to the glass, fogging it up with his breath.
The three of us stuck to the window — and that exact kind of mischief began, the kind you can only pull off at home, when everyone is your own and it’s winter.
We started making faces: twisting our mouths, puffing out our cheeks, pulling horrible crooked masks, like children given five minutes of total freedom.
“You won’t hiiiiit meeee!” I shout, pressing my palms to the glass. “Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah!”
The Adventuress sticks out her tongue with such seriousness, as if she’s competing in an international teasing championship.
Josh does something so absurd with his face that I burst out laughing myself, almost sliding down to the floor.
And suddenly everything went quiet. We stayed glued to the glass. Where is he? Where did he go?
A second of silence.
And Nate bursts into the living room like a snow demon.
“Oh yeah?! You’re the bad shots!!!”
And he starts hurling his carefully stashed snow reserves at us.
“Oh my God! OH MY GOD!” I yell, laughing.
Roman is already fully geared up on Nate’s side. Naturally. And Rosie is here too. Of course she is.
“AAA! You’re crazy! Stop it!” I shriek.
And when the snow runs out, he straightens up, breathing hard, cheeks red, snow melting on his collar, eyes blazing.
“I’m going to Maine. Training. Twelve minutes. Whoever’s last is a boring, limp ass!”
“WHAT?! AAAAAAA!” EVERYONE screamed at once, so loudly the windows rattled from the vibration.
And the chaos of the century began.
Jonathan — our serious CFO, a man who usually walks calm and measured, like a walking bank guarantee — suddenly leapt over the couch. He simply took off, flying in a wide arc, as if he’d been training his whole life just for this trick.
The Chess Player instantly handed her daughter to Sophie, like a small bundle of fate. “Here!” And she was already racing toward the exit, her bun coming apart, heels slipping on the floor.
The Adventuress didn’t think at all: in three seconds she had a hat, a scarf, a jacket, and someone else’s mitten in her hands. She was already halfway out the door, shouting, “See you at the finish line, losers!!”
And the Aristocrat…
The Aristocrat instantly struck a theatrical pose, set his cup down on the saucer with such precision as if he weren’t in the middle of a storm but at a reception with the Queen of England.
“I suppose I’ll have to run as well,” he said.
And in the very next moment he was blown away by the gust of shared panic: he tore off from his spot and sprinted after them, unfurling his shawl as he went.
And the house exploded completely.
Shouts, laughter, pounding feet, slamming doors, children shrieking with delight, Sophie with a pot yelling, “JUST DON’T FORGET THE MITTENS!!” The Adventuress shouting, “I HAVE SOMEONE ELSE’S!!” Having someone else’s mitten suddenly became an advantage.
Scarves flew through the hallway, someone fell already in the entryway, Nate laughed so hard my heart jumped.
This wasn’t preparation for a trip. It was the start of a universal marathon in which no one wanted to be the “limp ass.”
I ran. In heels. In my morning cardigan and pencil skirt, which, generally speaking, are not designed for sprinting across a snow-covered porch. But adrenaline works miracles.
And then — I’m almost at the car. I’m so close, so close. Victory — there it is. Everything narrows to a single goal: the car.
One more second. One more moment.
But at that exact moment Nate catches me by the elbow. Lightly, but with such certainty that the morning seems to split in two.
He pulls me a little closer — just enough for his breath to tickle my skin.
“Baby, where are you rushing to?..”
“What?! Let go! I want to win!” I protest, though I’m laughing myself.
His gaze slides over my lips, he smirks with his signature I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing look and murmurs softly, almost purring, “My little mouse… my kitten… my sweet one…”
“Oh yeah?! Matty! Roman! Rosie!!!”
The three children appear instantly, as if they’d been living all morning inside some magical box, waiting for the signal.
I stick my tongue out at him — morning-bright, defiant, a little stubborn. “There! Trying to distract me!”
He presses a hand to his heart theatrically, as if I’ve mortally wounded him with love.
“THEY’RE TRYING TO KIDNAP MOM!!!” Roman yells.
“DAD IS A TRAITOR!!!” Carmen shouts.
“AAAAA!!!” Rosie joins in, launching herself at him with her whole body.
Nate bends over, defending himself. “Hey! Hey! Not the face! Aaa!”
I run on.
Snowflakes lash my legs, heels beat out the rhythm of victory on the morning snow.
And I hum to myself under my breath, completely unashamed: la-la-la-la-la — I wooooon, I’m sooo cooool, I-I-I-I-I — a superstaaaar, that shameless Nate won’t stoooop me…
And then — right by the door — Jonathan.
Standing there. Blocking the way. Arms crossed over his chest. Archer’s smirk included. Officially.
Ha. Well, Jonathan I can handle.
“Sweetheart, let me through,” I say lightly, as if we’re talking about a cup of tea and not a strategic maneuver.
He doesn’t move an inch. Only raises an eyebrow.
I narrow my eyes.
Oh really.
Somewhere outside, from the snowdrifts, Nate’s voice rings out, “Thanks, buddy!”
I glance back. Nate is busy. Fine.
I take a step closer, entering Jonathan’s space just enough to turn the conversation into a conspiracy.
“Jonathan,” I say more quietly, “if you don’t let me through right now, I’ll pretend this was your decision.”
A micro-pause. His fingers twitched slightly — he gave himself away. His pupils widened, then gathered again.
Ha. Caught.
“Please,” I add, already almost cheerfully. “I really need to get there.”
He exhales. His shoulders drop. Resistance lifted.
“Go ahead,” he mutters, stepping aside.
Satisfied with myself, I open the door.
And then — Nate.
He’s almost running. Stumbles. Lunges forward. A hand reaching out.
“Aaa!” I cry out in surprise.
One more second — and the door slams shut with a dull bang.
My heart is pounding, my breath is off, and I’m laughing — too loudly, too vividly, almost gasping. Not so much from laughter as from the thought that he’s about to burst in.
Oh my God. Games like this drive me completely insane. I can barely breathe.
Meanwhile, the Adventuress and the Chess Player are running side by side, hooked at the elbows. They glance back and spot the Aristocrat, who for some reason has decided to run beautifully — back straight, step perfect. They exchange a quick look.
“Well then…” the Adventuress whispers.
“Yes, let’s,” the Chess Player smiles.
And in one second they both shoulder him.
“Move it, girl.”
The Aristocrat falls into a snowdrift — beautifully, theatrically, with the dignity of a king — face first.
Snow explodes in a fountain. The children shriek with delight.
He lifts his head, blinks, shakes snow from his lashes, and with absolute composure says, “I always knew winter in these parts is… excessive.” A pause. He thoughtfully touches his collar. “It allows itself unnecessary intimacy.”
The Adventuress, already running off, shouts, “WE pushed you, you velvety victim of fate!!”
The Chess Player adds, “And we’ll push you again if you don’t hurry!”
The Aristocrat rises — majestic and offended — brushing off the snow with a gesture better suited to a red carpet than a courtyard, and says, “I will inform you when my heart returns to normal.”
From behind, the twins in chorus: “Oh, don’t start YOUR thing!”
The Adventuress laughs, “Yeah, yeah, hurry up, or the car will leave without you, our snowy greatness!”
And he, sighing theatrically, heads toward the car, holding himself as if an entire era has just betrayed him.
The road.

Car number one — Nate driving, me beside him, warmth between us, and the feeling that we are the crew on which the whole expedition depends.
Car number two — the camp of common sense. Jonathan at the wheel — the kind of man capable of organizing even a flight to Mars — checking routes. The Chess Player with the youngest in her arms, the baby sleepily rubbing her eyes through a scarf. Sophie loading the twins into the back seat — like the chief guardian of order and children in the entire kingdom.
Car number three — chaos on wheels. The Adventuress jumps in first, the Aristocrat after her. They’re not brother and sister, but they fight and bicker exactly like people who grew up together in the same apartment, shared one closet, and spent their whole lives arguing over who gets the better sandwich.
We raced at the head of the column — me, Nate, and his signature grin, the one that keeps me alert better than any coffee. He drove briskly, confidently, lightly whistling along to the music, while I — half reclining, half laughing — watched the lights of scattered houses flicker past the windows.
The car’s AI tried to switch on child mode: “Warning. Explicit content. Recommendation — limit music.”
Nate snorted, lowered his Ray-Bans a little, and leaned toward me. “Baby… seems like someone here needs to cover their ears.”
“Really?” I moved my lips. “I don’t know if it matters, but I’m not wearing panties.”
He swallowed.
He caught my gaze in the mirror — and his lips trembled. He exhaled softly, as if there wasn’t enough air.
He cleared his throat.
A second to survey the surroundings.
How quickly could he turn off the road?
I bit my lip.
He exhaled again — short, sharp, as if the blow had landed straight under his ribs. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
“Damn it…” he whispered so quietly that no one but me could hear.
The car shuddered slightly as he eased off the speed. Not abruptly — just enough for me to feel him giving ground.
“We…” He pressed the radio button. “Guys, we need a technical stop. The system’s acting strange — I want to check the tire pressure.”
(From the second car, the Aristocrat: “Pressure in what, exactly, pardon me?”)
Nate turned off the radio without listening to the rest of the comments.
The road emptied. The forest drew closer. The silence inside the car began to ring.
He slowed at the edge of the road. Ray-Bans off to the side — and I see his eyes, dark, hot, as if all the cold of Maine had vanished in a single instant.
He turns fully toward me. His knee braces against the seat. His hand settles on my waist — steady, strong, like a man holding himself together by sheer will.
“Sweetheart, do you understand that I can’t drive if you’re going to say things like that?”
I smiled innocently.
“Sorry.”
I feel his breath at my cheek, his fingers creeping a little higher along my thigh, stopping — just enough to make me lose my mind on my own.
“Baby…” he whispers, so close. “That’s not fair.”
I smile. Very calmly, as if it isn’t my heart pounding hard enough to break down doors.
“You should have thought of that earlier, Mr. Driver.”
He leans in as if to kiss me, stops a centimeter away, and my whole body reaches for him on its own.
His fingers tremble at my waist. My hand slides along his collar. The world collapses into a single point between us.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Kitten… say it again, please,” he says low, barely a voice.
I shift my hip slightly, as if by accident, and he stops breathing.
Quietly, almost innocently:
“I’m not wearing panties, Nate.”
A low growl.
His hand is back on my waist. Not even a hand — a grip, all of his strength. The other is at the curve of my knee, steady, hot, decisive.
He pulls me toward him — sharply, but carefully, as if this is what he’s been holding back the entire drive.
I arch into him.
I’m on him now, my knees on either side of his thighs, and on an inhale he presses his forehead into my neck, as if trying to hide his madness in my skin.
His voice is hoarse, torn:
“Sweetheart… you…”
I smile.
His hands slide up my thighs — heavy, hot, real. Higher. Higher still. And with every centimeter my body trembles, answers, burns.
He groans softly.
He places his palm at the back of my head, draws me closer, and his lips find mine — not kissing, but taking, as if it were air.
I feel his chest straining toward mine,
how the body beneath me is hotter than the air,
how he tightens his hips —
sharply,
almost uncontrollably.
He whispers, biting my lower lip:
“I’m going to…
I can’t…”
I trace a line along his neck with the tip of my finger.
He exhales loudly, like an animal.
His fingers at my waist seem to place me exactly where he wants me.
I’m on top.
God, I gasped sharply, the pain burning into pleasure.
“Sweetheart—”
“Nate, I can’t—”
“Kitten,” he cups my face in his hands, “you don’t like it?”
I flush all over.
“No, no, I just— he— he—”
Nate growls in pleasure, openly enjoying the torment.
And I press closer to him,
blushing, stammering.
“Nate… he’s just… too big,”
and I bite my lip.
He completely lost control —
in one swift motion he flipped me over and pinned me beneath his body.
I can barely breathe. My breathing is so broken that I’m half-fainting.
I don’t think at all when we’re together.
He bit me.
And I squealed,
dying from pleasure.
He pulls my hair.
“God, Nate…”
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
I laugh.
“You’re so wild.”
He growls — he’s not laughing at all.
And I almost lose consciousness again.
A little more. Just a little more.
Oh God.
Don’t stop.
I bite his lip and blood appears.
“Oh God, love, I’m sorry—”
He brushes it off with a growl.
“My little mouse, my kitten,” he moans with pleasure.
“Nate, I—I—I—”
He squeezes my ribs.
Another moan, almost a scream.
And my body finally goes slack.
Across from me sat Nate — my beloved, satisfied cat.
God, he’s beautiful.
I kissed him gently, admiring him.
He looked at me with eyes as if I were his entire world, and I blushed again.
He lightly nipped my ear
and stroked my hair.
“I love you so much, sweetheart.”
I grew terribly shy and wrapped my arms around him so I wouldn’t burst into tears.
Thank you, God. Thank you.
…
Nate covered me with a blanket and slightly adjusted the air conditioning,
removing the cold,
leaving only soft warmth.
“Better like this,”
he said quietly,
not asking,
and kissed my forehead.
Then he reached back,
took out the thermos —
the very one Sophie had thoughtfully packed for us that morning.
He unscrewed the lid,
poured the tea —
mine,

my favorite.
Steam immediately rose,
pressed against the glass,
and inside the car everything suddenly became
strangely calm.
He added honey.
A little more than necessary.
Stirred slowly,
carefully,
as if with that motion
he were putting me back together.
“Here you go, my little mouse,”
he said,
handing me the cup.
I took a sip.
The warmth went inside,
settled in my chest.
I was already about to smile again,
had almost closed my eyes…
When suddenly
the radio crackled.
Apparently I’d pressed the button while climbing back over.
And at that exact moment Jonathan’s voice calmly came through the radio,
as if he weren’t in a car full of shrieking children but sitting in the Harvard library:
“Car three, you are once again behaving like people without an education.”
The Adventurer howls:
“THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I AM!!!”
The Aristocrat:
“Some people — yes.”
Nate and I, of course, hear everything.
I’m already laughing out loud; Nate can barely keep hold of the steering wheel.
I press the radio button:
“Guys, seriously… you’re AS ALWAYS. We’re right behind you, everything’s fine.”
And then —
the Adventurer’s PIRATE SCREAM, like a gunshot:
“OH, I SEE! YOU’VE ALREADY FUCKED, HAVEN’T YOU?!!”
I spit the tea out in a FOUNTAIN.
Silence in the car.
The next second Nate chokes on laughter.
“CO-O-O-DY!!!” I yell into the radio.
The Aristocrat, without blinking:
“She obviously meant ‘lost their bearings,’ of course.”
The Adventurer:
“DON’T PUT WORDS IN MY MOUTH!!!”
And the entire convoy of cars explodes with laughter.
Then Sophie’s quiet, angelic voice is heard:
“Lord, have mercy and keep us all…”
Roman leans forward and the radio hisses.
“Mommmm?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“What does ‘nat’rakhali’s’ mean?”
Sophie chokes on air.
Jonathan drops the thermos.
I cover my face with my hands.
The Aristocrat whispers:
“It was a beautiful day while it lasted.”
Nate quietly slides me a napkin:
“Baby… please… don’t teach the kids new words.”
And he turns the volume all the way up.
The entire cabin fills with:
NA-NA-NA, TILL I FIND SOMEONE I LOVE!
The music slams against the windows,
light reflects in his Ray-Bans —
black, sharp, mercilessly beautiful.
Oh, that Nate.
We scream. In unison.
TILL I FIND SOMEONE I LOVE
And again — kissing strangers.
Nate yells, I yell back, pedal to the floor —
we’re free and alive.
Ogunquit.

Three cars slowly roll into the parking lot by the trail.
Snow crunches under the tires — that rare, ringing, fragile snow that only exists in Maine.
Nate kills the engine and throws out shortly:
“Guys, from here we walk.”
The tone is commanding but friendly. No one argues. Everyone’s happy to walk.
Doors open almost simultaneously.
The kids jump out first — Roman, Rosie, Carmen, Matty, Philip —
and instantly turn the place into a battlefield.
Snowballs.
Shouting.
Laughter.
Snow flying everywhere.
Jonathan doesn’t even lift his head — still in the car,
phone in one hand,
the Chess Player beside him, already buried in emails —
two adults life runs harder than snow hits your face.
And in the middle of it all — Nate.
He walks around the car slowly, as if the wind obeys him.
Cashmere coat, dark scarf, high collar —
every detail looks like an ad titled “The man you’ve been looking for your whole life.”
He comes to the passenger door, opens it softly, gallantly —
as if we’re already alone in that same ad,
not by a trail in Maine.
“Come out, sweetheart. Careful.”
I slip out of the car —
heels ring sharply against the ice,
pencil skirt, short shearling jacket,
wind teasing my hair.
Zero practicality, but my love for life is obvious.
“Oh — my purse!”
I bend toward the seat to grab my bag —
a small movement,
the skirt tightens,
the fabric outlines my hips.
And at that exact moment —
a sharp, ringing, insolent smack.
“NATE!!”
He’s standing on the snow, hands in his pockets,
face angelic, innocent —
as if the snow itself hit me.
“What?” he says in that calm voice of his.
“I just walked up. Absolutely not my fault.
And actually, I got slapped too.”
A snowflake lands on his lashes.
He doesn’t move.
He looks at me
with the expression of “I swear, I’m a saint.”
Eyes honest,
almost innocent —
but his lips are barely trembling, betraying a barely contained smile.
I can’t help it
and smack him with my gloves.
“Idiot!”
He just licks his lips
and suddenly drops into a stance,
the way rugby players do —
wide, confident,
slightly crouched,
ready to charge.
“Oh no…” I manage to breathe.
“A-a-ah, Nate!”
Too late.
With one powerful motion
he knocks me off my feet,
scoops me up
and throws me over his shoulder
like a trophy.
“Nate, you madman!
Put me down right now!”
He snorts contentedly.
“The cat is satisfied.
The little mouse won’t do anything.”
I kick my legs,
laugh,
try to wriggle free,
but he walks on confidently,
as if this was always the plan.
Somewhere behind us
Roman is yelling at the top of his lungs:
“Mooooom!
Look, I hit Josh right in the face!”
“You actually hit a tree, runt!”
Josh yells back.
“And hey — shake that butt!”
The kids are already charging ahead
like tiny hurricanes:
snowballs flying everywhere —
under feet,
into shoulders,
into the air —
and of course
into Josh,
their main target,
which, frankly,
is his butt.
They shriek,
trip,
collapse into snowbanks
and immediately jump back up,
as if the world really were ending in five minutes
and they needed to laugh
as loudly as possible before it did.
Somewhere behind us
Jonathan and the Chess Player —
they have their own war:
incoming emails,
urgent tasks,
negotiations.
That’s not going anywhere.
Nate finally sets me down.
I straighten my skirt
and immediately —
whack —
hit him with my purse.
“Idiot!”
He only steps closer.
That purring of his again —
the kind I feel
before I even hear it.
“Sorry, kitten…
you’re so sweet,
it’s impossible to resist.”
I blush all over.
Oh God,
will he ever
stop
having this effect on me?
I walk ahead,
pretending
I’m completely composed,
that his influence has been minimized
(or at least postponed).
At first he walks just behind me —
watching
how I step through the snow
in heels:
unnatural,
dangerous,
right on the edge
between propriety and disaster.
God, God,
please don’t let me fall.
“Kitten,”
he reaches out
and lightly catches my waist.
I kiss him on the move.
He breaks into a smile.
“My helpless,
defenceless kitten.”
He pulls me closer —
literally half a step,
so that my shoulder line
rests softly under his.
“Careful, sweetheart.
It’s slippery here.”
His voice is low, quiet.
Not politely caring —
but the kind
that makes everything inside
drop out
for one brief second.
“Ha!
I’m strong!
And anyway—”
I start walking theatrically,
goofing around,
like a frightened swan
on ice,
deliberately turning away
so he won’t see.
And everything seems fine.
I walk.
I walk.
And then—
the snow under my feet
betrays me.
My heel slips.
His hand instantly
tightens around my waist,
as if I weigh nothing,
as if he’s holding
my body,
my breath,
and the entire world
all at once.
“There. See?”
he whispers,
leaning so close
that his hot breath
touches my neck.
“I was right.”
I realize:
he’s no longer talking about that.
The air changes.
Abruptly.
“Always right, baby…
or do you want to argue?
Do you want to be in charge?”
And he bites
my earlobe.
I nearly lose consciousness.
All flushed.
Caught.
He licks his lips.
Shameless.
Shameless Nate.
“Sweetheart…
I could eat you.”
And then —
a snowball
straight into his shoulder.
“Dad!”
He changes instantly.
His face turns hard.
Dangerous.
“That’s it,”
he says.
“Brace yourselves.”
The kids squeal
and scatter in different directions
like sparrows.
“Could you two
not grope each other
for even a minute?!”
the Adventurer shouts.
“Bleeeh,”
I stick my tongue out at her.
And we,
laughing,
keep walking.
Ahead — little houses, neat like toys.
Each one decorated with string lights, fir branches, red bows.
The snow lies evenly, softly,
and the whole town looks as if it were built specifically
for a Christmas postcard.
I squeal.
For real.
“Aaaah! How beautiful!”
My voice shoots higher than my dignity, but I don’t care.
This is a celebration.
This is Maine.
This is happiness.
The kids immediately steal me away from Nate —
someone grabs my sleeve,
someone my hand,
someone tries to hit my hat with a snowball.
My curls bounce,
sparkle,
brush my lips,
and I run with them,
in my narrow skirt,
heels tapping against the snow
as if I’m about to win a speed award.
And there it is.
The shop.
We practically smash our faces into the display window.
“A-a-a!! How beautiful!”
I squeal for the second time in a minute, and no one complains.
Jonathan, walking past,
lifts his eyes from his phone for a second.
The Chess Player does the same;
her glasses slide down the tip of her nose,
a brief look:
you’re crazy, but carry on.
And we burst inside —
with the kids,
like a storm.
The door slams,
a bell above it rings —
clear, bright,
as if the shop itself is happy
to finally be noticed.
A warm, full-figured shopkeeper
looks up from behind the counter.
She’s wearing a knitted cardigan the color of oat honey,
slightly stretched at the elbows,
a simple linen dress underneath,
and around her neck — a chain
with a small wooden heart,
darkened with age.
Her cheeks are rosy,
her hair gathered in a messy bun
from which a strand keeps trying
to escape.
“WELCOOOOME!”
she drawls —
genuinely,
not out of politeness,
but as if we are
long-awaited guests.
We all say together:
“Hello!”
And inside…
oh God.
I love handmade work to death —
and here everything,
everything,
everything
is made by local artisans’ hands.
Shelves of light wood,
a little crooked,
and all the cozier for it.
Soft toys sit in rows
like tiny residents.
Ceramics — warm,
uneven,
with glaze
that seems to have melted just a little,
simply because it wanted to.
Embroidery — simple,
honest,
with patterns that were clearly invented
over a cup of tea.
It smells of wool,
wood,
and something sweet —
maybe caramel,
or maybe just warmth.
The kids instantly grab everything in sight.
Someone has already put on a hat
that’s way too big for them,
Someone drags mittens,
someone demands
“that bunny,
no, that one,
no, both!”
And me —
I’m already in another corner.
Then in this one.
Then running back again.
“Nate!”
I shout,
already holding
something new.
“Look!
And this!
And this one too!”
He laughs.
For real.
Deeply.
Standing in the middle of the shop

with children
pulling him in different directions.
I grab a teddy bear —
soft,
in a little green sweater,
with eyes
like a mouse’s.
It’s warm,
as if it’s already been loved.
“Nate…
please, sweetheart…
will you buy it for me?”
He comes closer,
leans in,
smiles with that
dangerous,
warm,
too-heartfelt look of his:
“Anything you say, kitten.”
And I just throw myself around his neck.
The kids laugh.
The shopkeeper melts,
folds her hands over her chest
and looks at us
as if moments like this
are exactly why
shops like this exist.
“And this one!
And this!
And… mittens!
And napkins!”
I’m almost breathless with happiness.
“Nate, I want everything!”
He laughs even louder.
Real laughter.
So much so that the shop
for a second
becomes even warmer.
And then from behind —
Jonathan’s voice:
“Can I get coffee?”
He doesn’t lift his eyes from the phone —
says it
like he’s scheduling a board meeting.
The Chess Player nods,
also without looking up from her screen.
Two people
who know how to be present
and still — working.
I fly over to him
like a tornado.
“Give it!”
And the phone is already in my hand.
“Nazokat.
This is important.
Give it back.”
“Nope.
Nope.
NOPE!”
I back away
like a dancer.
“Ooooh, want your phone, sweetheart?”
He holds on.
But the corners of his mouth
are already treacherously lifting.
“Nazokat, give it,”
he says,
strict and laughing at the same time.
“Damn it.”
“Nate!
Catch!”
The phone arcs through the air —
and Nate catches it, of course,
automatically.
Smirks.
Slowly.
Licks his lips —
like before a game.
“That’s it,”
he says.
“Let’s go.”
“Give it back!”
Jonathan steps forward.
And then —
click.
He sharply tosses his jacket
over the back of a chair.
Oh, so that’s how it is.
This is no longer the CFO.
This is a boy.
“Guys,”
the Chess Player warns calmly,
“you’re about to wreck the shop.”
“We’re bringing it to life,”
the Aristocrat replies,
and for some reason moves a vase.
The phone flies again.
The kids squeal.
I squeal.
Nate feints,
intercepts,
sidesteps.
“It’s like a movie!”
Roman shouts.
“Better!”
I shout back.
The Aristocrat catches the phone.
Proudly.
For exactly half a second.
Then — splash.
Straight into the aquarium.
The fish scatter.
Silence.
Jonathan freezes.
His face pure
for f—’s sake.
I’m already around his neck.
“Oh come on, sweetheart,
at least it’s fun!”
He resists for three seconds.
Then gives in.
His shoulders drop.
The kids latch onto us.
Then the Aristocrat.
Then even the Chess Player.
A huge, living knot
in the middle of the shop.
“You are all…
unhinged,”
Jonathan mutters.
“Yes!”
I answer.
“And it’s wonderful!”
And suddenly I realize —
I can exhale.
Laughter.
Warmth.
Handmade toys.
Boys without jackets.
And ahead —
a day
that will
definitely
be remembered.
We stayed in the shop
longer than we planned.
Much longer.
Then the running slowed.
Someone started rubbing their eyes with a fist.
Someone sat right down on the floor,
leaning against a shelf of blankets.
One child had already fallen asleep in the Chess Player’s arms —
their head drooping onto her shoulder,
mouth slightly open,
breathing steady,
completely trusting.
There turned out to be a small table in the shop —
low, wooden,
worn,
as if it had been moved thousands of times.
Plates with cookies appeared on it quickly,
some homemade sweets,
nuts,
chocolate —
which the kids first ate with delight,
and then just mechanically,
between yawns.
Crumbs were everywhere.
On the table.
On the floor.
On the mittens.
And the shopkeeper —
that warm, full-figured, funny woman —
put a small kettle on the hot plate,
then another one,
then waved her hand
and poured us mulled wine.
Not “just a little.”
But enough
that the second mug
confidently promised
that life is a miracle
and Maine is paradise on earth.
And the third —
that we had done everything right.
Absolutely everything.
Right from the very beginning.
The mulled wine was treacherous:
soft, spicy,
with orange peel and cinnamon,
it didn’t hit the head
but unfolded inside,
like a warm scarf
suddenly wrapped around the soul.
First you laugh louder.
Then you hug everyone.
Then you start saying:
“Well really, just look at us —
we’re such beautiful people.”
The shopkeeper topped us up without unnecessary questions.
She’d just come over,
peek into a mug,
grunt approvingly
and splash some more.
Sometimes she’d add a slice of orange,
sometimes a cinnamon stick,
as if she knew:
this person right now
needs a little more warmth.
We sat around that same small table.
Nate stretched out his legs,
Jonathan held on at first,
then waved it off
and took a mug too.
The Aristocrat started telling
some story
that was impossible to listen to without laughing,
because he kept getting lost,
gesturing,
and laughing at himself.
“I’m warning you,”
he said seriously,
“if you pour me another one,
I’ll start singing.”
“Sing,”
we immediately allowed in chorus.
The kids sat nearby,
stuffed with cookies,
chocolate-smudged fingers
and sleepy eyes.
Someone was already nodding off.
Someone had fallen asleep,
clutching a soft toy.
Someone half-reclined, listening to the adults’ voices
the way you listen to the sea:
not really following,
but calming down.
The shop became something else.
Not a store.
Not a place.
But a living room.
Accidental.
Real.
I sat with a mug in my hands,
cheeks flushed,
head light,
thoughts kind,
and at some point it seemed to me
that if we stayed here forever,
nothing terrible would happen.
And only later —
somewhere closer to nine in the evening,
when the kids had fully settled,
and the mulled wine was already talking to me
a little too familiarly,
a thought suddenly hit me.
“Nate…
we…
didn’t book a hotel.”
He blinked.
Slowly.
Once.
Twice.
As if I had just told him
that Mercury had fallen into the ocean
and that, generally speaking,
we should probably do something about it.
“Jonathan?”
He raised his eyes.
Not right away.
Like someone
who hoped
it wasn’t addressed to him.
But already understood —
it was.
“Damn,”
I said.
“We’re exhausted.
We…
need somewhere to lie down.
And around here —
nothing.”
I looked around.
The shop was almost dim now:
the light warm,
but sparse,
the display window reflecting us strangely —
blurred figures,
children in arms,
scarves, bags, toys.
Outside —
dark.
Quiet.
Snow falling evenly and beautifully,
slowly,
almost deliberately.
And that beauty
didn’t make it any easier.
We’re standing without a roof over our heads.
Fifteen people.
Children.
Sleepy.
Adults overheated on mulled wine.
And three men who are far too handsome.
“Boys,”
I said.
“This is your responsibility.”
The words landed heavily.
Not like a reproach —
like a fact.
But it was starting to irritate me.
The guys swallowed.
Both of them.
“Sweetheart…”
Nate started to say something.
I raised my hand,
stopping him.
“I hate excuses, and you know I adore you,”
I said.
“Fix this.
Immediately.”
The shopkeeper looks at us over her glasses.
Scans our group —
children, adults, men, my heels, the teddy bear
And then she suddenly says:
“Why would you need a hotel? I’m a widow. The house is big. You can stay with me.”
We freeze.
I could literally hear Nate stop breathing.
Jonathan lifted his head as if someone had just предложил him adopt thirty-seven hamsters.
The kids shriek with joy: “YES YES YEEEES!”
And I’m standing there, feeling something suspicious switch on inside me.
“Uhh…”
“Well…”
“That’s… unexpected.”
I tense so hard my heel squeaks on the snow.
The woman keeps looking at us with the kindest smile.
But… you never know.
And then Nate —
quietly, confidently, almost imperceptibly —
places his hand on my waist.
Not for show.
For reassurance.
I relax instantly.
Body — yes.
Mind — no.
The guys exchange a look.
“We’re… grateful,” Nate says politely,
“but could we… see the house?” — Jonathan adds.
She laughs.
“Of course, of course! Walk around! There’s nobody there anyway.”
She laughs —
wide,
good-natured,
waving her hand,
as if she’s talking about the most natural thing in the world:
“Go on, go on! There’s nobody there anyway.”
The house turns out to be literally across the street.
A small one.
Two lampposts.
A few steps over crunching snow.
So close it almost becomes funny:
we worried so much,
and all this time
it was just standing right there.
We cross the street on foot,
in a chain,
kids picked up in arms,
someone holding a sleeve,
someone clutching a bag of toys.
The snow crunches dully underfoot,
the lamppost casts a yellow pool of light,
and the house slowly grows in front of us —
dark,
quiet,
slightly wary.
And then we’re inside.
We don’t enter —
we storm in.
Like a landing unit.
I look at Nate and Jonathan.
“Guys, check everything.”
They exchange a glance and split up.
Someone heads straight to the bathroom,
checking pipes.
Someone to the windows —
because that’s what you do:
see what bushes are there,
what berries,
anything suspicious.
Someone dives into the basement.
Someone flings open closets,
looking as if the outcome of the operation
depends on it.
We check everything.
Every room.
The entire kitchen.
The fireplace.
The attic.
Kettles.
Sugar bowls.
Even the curtains.
She turns out to be a pure soul.
A kind, lonely retiree.
And the shop — her small happiness.
We exchange glances.
And I finally exhale.
“Sweetheart… seems like… everything’s okay.”
“Jonathan?”
He gives a short nod.
No words.
That’s enough.
“Ivy?”
She confirms too.
Calmly.
Confidently.
Good.
All my people are here.
I’m safe.
The kids fall asleep immediately.
No questions.
No checking who’s where, who’s with whom.
They just switch off —
the way only children can
when there are adults nearby
they can trust.
They sleep with adults.
Clearly.
No chaos.
No compromises.
Nate looks at me.
He knows
that I’m worried.
He knows this moment
when I look calm on the outside
and inside I’m still calculating risks.
“Sweetheart,”
he says quietly.
“Waiting for your instructions.”
I nod.
Pull myself together.
“Guys,
split the kids between rooms so that
there are at least two adults
in each room.”
“Copy.”
No questions.
No “come on.”
No discussion.
“Kody and Ivy —
room with the little ones.”
“Jonathan and Josh —
with the boys.”
Everyone moves immediately,
smoothly,
as if we’ve done this
a thousand times.
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
“Guys…”
I lower my voice.
“Please…
I won’t be able to sleep.
This is someone else’s house.
We’re seeing this woman
for the first time.
I need
someone on watch
in every room.”
I feel myself flushing.
For a moment a thought flashes:
what if they think
I’m overdoing it.
But I know myself.
Worst case,
I’ll do it myself.
But I can’t sleep
if the kids
aren’t under total control.
Mine didn’t even look surprised.
Not a sigh.
Not a glance.
They simply nodded
and calmly distributed
who was on watch,
when,
and where.
I nodded once more.
Slowly.
And inside —
quietly,
without words —
I prayed.
That my people
are truly my people.
Not random ones
who just happened
to be nearby.
Usually, the children sleep with dogs.
Working dogs.
Belgian Malinois.
Lean, dry,
like drawn strings.
Two per child.
Average reaction time —
0.2–0.3 seconds
from stimulus to movement.
Acceleration —
up to 40–45 km/h
over short distance.
Indoors — even faster.
Jaw compression force —
around 190–220 PSI.
Enough
to restrain an adult
without repeated bites.
They are trained to immobilize,
not to tear.
Training is object-based,
not owner-based.
The child is the center.
Even if there is panic nearby, noise, shouting —
they do not switch.
Focus narrows.
Distractions are muted.
No response to misdirection.
Only tunnel vision.
They work by scent —
by hormonal trace.
Adrenaline, cortisol,
a sharp change in body chemistry —
an instant trigger.
Without command.
Without warning.
The dogs are trained for every possible scenario,
including neutralization involving firearms.
These are not friendly dogs.
They stand to the death.
They do not respond to children’s commands,
to eliminate manipulation by unworthy adults.
No barking.
No warnings.
There is body tension
and movement.
Micro-sleep —
in turns,
by minutes.
The perimeter is always closed.
Tonight,
they are not here.
Damn it, Nazokat.
This is on you.
You knew — and you didn’t bring them.
This is your responsibility.
I try to lie down.
Try to close my eyes.
Useless.
As always — tremor for the children.
Not panic.
Procedure.
I get up.
Nate is asleep beside me, so warm and beloved.
I exhale — how good that he’s safe.
How good that he is so calm.
This feeling is unknown to him.
Maybe I overdo it,
but I don’t want the children to grow up like I did.
They must grow up in total safety.
First — the boys.
I enter quietly.
Josh is asleep.
Deeply.
Evenly.
That kind of sleep only happens
when it’s safe nearby.
Jonathan sits in an armchair,
laptop on his knees.
The screen dimmed.
He isn’t just “working” —
he’s on watch.
He looks up.
“Shift change in an hour,”
half a whisper.
I nod.
And silently: thank you.
And also —
sorry.
He gives a short nod.
That’s all.
I move on.
The Chess Player —
still with her laptop.
I stop in the doorway.
“Enough work,”
I say quietly, sharply — my commanding nature taking over.
She looks at me,
sighs,
and closes the lid.
No argument.
Kody — on the couch.
Laptop open.
She’s on a video call.
Speaking in a low voice.
Her face relaxed,
her smile alive.
I don’t interfere.
I just watch.
I memorize the name,
the manner of speech,
the tone,
I watch how she reacts,
how he does.
Tomorrow I’ll ask security
to check everything
that can be checked.
Let them crack her laptop,
run the man through open and closed sources.
I need to be sure.
I don’t want to let this drift.
I go to the kitchen.
I need to eat.
The body demands it.
“Whiskey?” — Aiden.

“Not now.
Right now I need to stay collected.
I’m responsible for every one of them.”
“As you wish.”
He wanted to clown around.
“Not now, friend.”
I open the fridge.
Cold light.
Silence.
Seems like no one’s there.
I can breathe a little.
I pull my robe open —
habitually,
at home.
I take off my bra — God, if it were just Nate, I’d take off my panties too.
I hate when clothes suffocate me.
“Hungry?”
“AH!”
I flinch with my whole body.
“Damn it!”
“Sorry,” she says quickly.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My heart is pounding.
I put my palm on the table.
“It’s okay,” I exhale.
“Thank you again.
Really.
I can’t believe we could have been left outside.”
She smiles.
Calm.
No extra words.
A couple of phrases —
about the house,
the night,
the quiet.
She goes to bed.
And I stay in the kitchen
for another minute.
Light.
Cold.
Silence.
Why the hell isn’t she sleeping?
Easy, Nazokat.
Everything’s fine.
She’s just an older woman.
Just age.
I squint.
Let’s assume so.
But now I definitely won’t sleep.
I’ll stand watch until morning.
Then I’ll sleep in the car.
And only now
do I allow myself
to exhale.
I look out the window and pour the water into the sink.
I roll my neck.
Come on, Nazokat.
Everything is lined up.
Everything’s fine.
Everything’s under control.
Everyone you love is safe.
I’ll walk through the house once more.
Just in case the guys missed something.
“Mouse.”
Oh God, I flinch again.
“Nate, love… are you awake?”
“No, kitten. I woke up — you weren’t there.”
I smile apologetically.
Another jab:
“You cause a ton of trouble.
You might as well set up police around the perimeter.
Normal people are sleeping.”
I get angry.
Go to hell — I’d rather overdo it than—
I shudder.
“Kitten, everything’s fine.”
“Yeah,” I nod, still tense.
“The guys are on watch.
The house is swept.
Everything’s fine, baby.”
I relax.
He’s right.
I’ve accounted for everything I could.
And if I missed something — I’ll be the one to blame myself.
Come on, Nazokat.
Breathe.
And breathe again.
It’s almost 3 a.m.
Another three or three and a half hours and everyone will wake up.
Then I can ease up a little.
“Nate.”
I look at him.
Then again.
Oh God.
He’s already coiled, ready to move.
“Hi,” he says with that sly smile.
I smile back.
He presses closer and closer.
“No, no, no.
Nate, I can’t.
This isn’t our house and— and— Nate, I—”
He steps so close I don’t know what excuse to invent.
He reaches past me to grab something —
so close,
but doesn’t touch.
Oh God. Oh God.
“Sweetheart, how do you like the house?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears, then let it fall again.
God.
Is he really going to talk now?
“Uh… uh… the house, well… it—”
And then, as if by accident, his robe fell open.
I swallowed.
Damn it, this Nate can drown out any outside sounds, smells — everything — except the thought of sex with him.
Bare torso and— oh God, I can’t talk to him right now.
“Yes, sweetheart. The house.”
“Uh… well… th-the house, it, uh…”
I tried to pull myself together.
And he reached again — to grab something — again over me, and my chest barely brushed his shoulder.
God, maniac. I know exactly what he’s doing. I know.
That bastard — with his discipline, with his self-control.
“The house, sweetheart, the house,”
he was already smiling slightly.
I tried not to stare at his torso
and not to lick my lips so obviously.
“The house, it’s very… I mean…”
God, I don’t care about this house any more than he does — damn him.
Come on, Nazokat, pull yourself together.
“Go to hell!”
He laughed and caught my hand.
Then he gathered himself — like a predator before the leap.
Serious Nate is a special version of Nate.
It’s about seven out of ten on the predator scale — the point where his darkness no longer hides.
He’s ruthless.
And he’s dominant.
I swallowed.
He growled into my ear and wrenched my arms behind my back — I almost fell, and he caught me instantly.
“Nate, I’m begging you, please…”
His eyes gleamed.
He was in his darkest part — ten out of ten.
I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not afraid.
Come on, sweetheart, you can handle him.
He rolled his neck and with a sharp motion threw me onto the table.
A moan tore out of me against my will — but by his command.
“Sweetheart, if I cross a line, just tell me, okay?”
I nodded, my mouth dry.
Oh God.
This isn’t Nate anymore — this is his darkness.
I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid.
He bit my neck and I screamed —
and almost died from pleasure.
He smiled that cruel, insolent smile of his.
Oh God, what is he planning.
“Kitten.
My little mouse…”
Oh God, oh God.
“Kitten, you’re so sweet. You know how much I love you.”
“Mhm…” — I no longer knew where his pulse was and where mine was.
The wall. He’s holding me so tightly.
His muscles are bunched, tense.
God, how strong he is — how can he hold me practically in midair?
“Sweetheart…”
He growled and squeezed my ribs so hard that I screamed again.
“Kitten?”
But I was begging him not to stop.
“What a bad girl you are… kitten. Such a little temptress.”
I swallowed.
“I’m not like that.”
“You’re lying too, miss.”
“Well then, sweetheart, you’ll have to take responsibility for that…”
…
A long hood.
A short rear.
Classic layout, almost perfect 50/50 weight distribution.
A car that doesn’t forgive stupidity, but always gives an honest warning first.
The steering is heavy, communicative. The front axle holds even on ice, because the suspension here isn’t for show — it’s for dialogue with the road.
This is the kind of car where you learn to read grip through your fingers.
Jonathan walks around it like a surgeon before an operation. Checks the tires. Touches the rim — as if greeting it.
Josh’s Mustang
A completely different story.
Wide shoulders. Long wheelbase. Muscles under metal.
This isn’t a car — it’s a statement.
The engine doesn’t “sound.”
It presses.
Even at idle you can feel the torque — the kind that, on ice, can become an enemy.
The Mustang loves asphalt.
Loves speed.
Loves being respected.
On ice, it’s a test of maturity.
Too much throttle — and the rear snaps instantly, without warning.
Josh smiles, but tightens the belt one notch tighter.
Nate’s Subaru
The quietest one.
The most dangerous.
The WRX STI doesn’t show off.
It’s collected.
All-wheel drive. Turbo. Short wheelbase.
A car that creates the illusion of control — and then punishes overconfidence faster than all the others.
On ice, the Subaru holds on until the very last moment, and then breaks loose all at once — no familiar “rear first, nose later.”
You can’t “catch” it.
You can only work it with weight and timing.
Nate gets inside and freezes for a second. Hands settle on the wheel. He doesn’t look around. He listens.
When the visors close, the room seems to lose its sound.
The instructor speaks calmly, without preamble:
“This isn’t drifting.”
“This is control.”
“Anyone who wants to show character — will show it to a snowbank.”
The engines start one by one.
The BMW — even, muted, like a well-tuned instrument.
The Mustang — deeper, lower, vibrating the air.
The Subaru — a short inhale from the turbo, as if the car is clenching itself into a fist.
The first meters are slow.
The ice is gray, mixed with sand — the most treacherous kind.
“BMW, hold it.”
“Lifted off early — good.”
“Don’t brake in the corner.”
The BMW goes in.
The front holds.
The rear steps out softly, predictably.
Jonathan doesn’t jerk. Shifts his weight slightly. The steering works in millimeters.
“That’s it.”
“German school.”
The Mustang goes next.
A little too much throttle — and the rear breaks loose sharper.
“Don’t push!”
“Wheel straight!”
“Look at the exit!”
Josh clenches his jaw. Waits. The Mustang comes back.
“Better.”
“Now you heard it.”
The Subaru goes third.
At first — too calm.
“Don’t trust her,” comes Nate’s short voice over the radio.
“She’s lying.”
And it’s true — on the slick section the car doesn’t slip by the axle. It floats as a whole.
“Wait.”
“Don’t save it.”
“Now…”
A pause. A fraction of a second.
Nate holds it. Doesn’t yank. Doesn’t panic.
“Now.”
A light movement. The Subaru straightens, as if this was the plan all along.
The radio crackles briefly:
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
Then comes the pendulum. Ice. Sharp weight transfer. Miss by half a second — and you spin.
The BMW goes through clean.
The Mustang — on the second try.
The Subaru — almost perfect.
“He’s not working the wheel,” a quiet voice in the channel says.
“He’s waiting.”
“That’s rare.”
The final part of the training is a simulation of a real road.
No cones.
No prompts.
Packed ice.
A gentle descent.
A blind turn.
The speed is minimal — and still dangerous.
This is where they test the main thing: not reaction, but habit.
The BMW goes clean.
The Mustang — tense, but collected.
The Subaru — calm, as if ice is its native element.
An hour passes unnoticed.
By the end of the session, the engines shut down one by one. Steam rises into the cold air. Hands are hot. Bodies are tuned. Silent, focused — they’re still there, in the turns, in the pauses, in the held slide.
Meanwhile, something else is ending for us.
Paint thickens on paper. Brushes return to jars — slowly, carefully, as if they, too, are ready to rest. Crafts are stacked: crooked houses, forests, cars with impossibly large wheels.
The room smells of paper, paint, and tea. Quiet. Calm. As if winter really can make people kinder.
The kids gradually tire. Someone rubs their eyes with a fist. Someone yawns, still clutching a pencil. We dress them — scarves, mittens, hats — wrapping them like little bundles of warmth that must not be released into the cold unprotected.
We gather our things, speak in half-voices, take the children by the hand and go outside — just to see how it went.
And it becomes clear almost immediately: it went well.
The guys are already relaxed, adrenaline still coursing through their blood, and they’re itching to show off. To demonstrate. To repeat.
I swallow.
Three beasts on the road — and three predators behind the wheel.
Nate isn’t just hot.
He’s explosive.
And his car is his second skin.
An extension of his body.
A little to the left — Jonathan.
The BMW, dark, heavy, calm predatory focus without fuss.
He keeps his distance, as if everything is already calculated and he’s simply waiting for the moment.
A bit farther — Josh.
The Mustang.
Nervous. Loud.
With an impatient growl,
as if it’s barely holding itself together.
like a young beast
that can’t stand still.
I swallow once more
and get into the car.
The door closes.
The space tightens.
Nate’s hands on the wheel —
steady, calm,
as if he’s not about to do
anything dangerous.
The music comes on immediately.
Slow Down — emdivity.
“Sorry, love…
that’s what the guys and I were listening to.”
I smile.
“So you’re shameless.
Meaning you boys
have your own track?”
He laughs —
and yes —
he gets a little embarrassed.
I tap his shoulder with my gloves.
“So we girls
are too delicate for you?
And this is strictly
boys’ territory?”
He leans in
and kisses me
so softly,
so carefully,
that my breath
catches.
I blush.
God.
He’s so sweet.
So sweet, this Nate,
when he’s not trying
to be dangerous.
I pick up the radio.
“So what does Jonathan listen to?”
Nate bursts out laughing.
“Probably a waltz.
Or some kind of classical music.”
We turn it on.
And from there —
clean, confident rap,
no compromises.
I freeze.
Then I laugh.
“And the Aristocrat?”
Nate doesn’t even answer.
We exchange a look.
“That’s always a separate story.”
I step out of the car.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
My heels click against the ice,
counting down the numbers to the start.
I pull out
a red bra.
Nate swallows.
I wink at him
and raise my hand
like a starting flag.
“On your marks…”
“Get set…”
“GO.”
The Subaru breaks first.
Not with a jerk —
but with a dense, predatory shove.
All-wheel drive bites into the ice,
and immediately —
a sharp weight transfer.
Nate doesn’t turn the wheel —
he breaks the trajectory with his body.
A short movement.
And the car slips sideways
in a long, clean angle,
as if the ice itself allowed it.
The tires scream,
but not hysterically —
even,
low.
The studs strike sparks from the frozen surface,
and behind the Subaru stretches
a dense cloud
of white smoke —
not from rubber,
from snow,
ripped into dust.
Jonathan’s BMW comes in next.
Completely different.
Not aggression —
precision.
The rear-wheel drive releases smoothly,
almost politely.
The rear steps out,
but the front stays glued in place.
He holds the angle
like a blueprint —
clean, calculated,
not a millimeter wasted.
The BMW slides
like a speed skater over a mirror of ice:
quiet,
beautiful,
without strain.
The Mustang closes the line.
And this is already a performance.
The power comes from the back,
the long wheelbase pulls,
the rear breaks wider,
rougher.
It roars.
Not shouting —
growling.
The smoke rises thicker,
the wheels carve the ice
in long arcs,
and the car goes sideways
so brazenly
that you want to scream
even before—
That’s how I understand it:
he holds it.
Three cars.
Three characters.
One sheet of ice.
The Subaru cuts the trajectory,
the BMW draws it,
the Mustang tears it apart —
all in the same space,
in the same breath.
The speed builds.
Turn after turn.
They’re not racing —
they’re dancing.
Smoke swirls over the track,
settles on eyelashes,
on jackets,
on laughter.
I stand there,
fingers clenched,
my heart in my throat,
and I squeal —
loudly,
girlishly,
absolutely happy.
When they stop,
the smoke is still hanging in the air,
and the ice is covered in black arcs,
like after a ritual.
Nate steps out of the Subaru.
Pulls off his glove with his teeth.
Looks at me.
His smile —
a little predatory.
A little boyish.
Oh, this Nate.
Time for a bite to eat
and a walk around town.
Ogunquit is small.
Compact.
Cozy.
The kind of place where everything is close
and no one is in a hurry.
We walk down the street with coffee,
someone with a bun,
someone with a paper bag,
chatting all at once —
about nonsense,
about the weather,
about who’s going to eat what next.
And here — there’s only one
jewelry store.
And I… damn.
I’m dying to go in there.
And so we do.
The jewelry store is small, neat.
Clean display cases.
Quiet.
The chime of the bell on the door —
almost intimate.
The shopkeeper looks up,
smiles politely,
without pushing.
As if he’s been here a long time
and knows how to wait.
The jewelry is laid out in little boxes,
everything neat,
proper,
with taste.
I lean toward the glass,
looking.
The girls do too.
We breathe onto the display,
leaving a light fog on the glass,
commenting —
“cute,”
“not bad,”
“this one’s pretty.”
But inside —
silence.
Nice.
Good.
Not mine.
Not it.
I straighten up,
slightly disappointed,
already mentally ticking the box:
“okay, we just stopped by.”
“Thank you very much,”
I say to the shopkeeper.
He nods.
We turn toward the door.
And we almost leave.
And then —
some awkward sound behind us.
Like something was bumped.
Metal against glass.
The shopkeeper fusses:
drops something,
picks it up,
pulls something out from under the counter,
shifts things around.
I’m already half a step past the threshold,
but for some reason
I turn around.
Automatically.
“Wait…”
my voice wavers.
“What is that?”
He looks up,
clearly not expecting this.
“Oh, that?
These earrings were brought in by a woman…
well, about a week ago.
Somehow…
I couldn’t bring myself to put them out.
I don’t know why.
And today I just decided to.”
I take a step back.
Then another.
Under my heels,
the floor seems to ripple slightly.
“Oh my God…”
I whisper.
And that’s it.
The world starts to sway.
For a split second, I lose my balance.
Nate catches me immediately —
instantly, firmly, confidently —
his hands on my waist, on my shoulders,
his body — my support.
“Careful, love. I’m here,”
he says quietly, hoarsely.
I look at the earrings.
Pink stones,
surrounded by stunning diamonds.
But it’s not about the beauty.
It’s them.
The earrings from that image
I saw four days before
Nate first walked into my life.
Back then it was just an image.
A tremor.
Intuition.
A click.
I was alone then:
Roman in my arms,
my ex nearby — empty, cold,
and me — shaking with fear.
Terrified beyond reason.
Afraid I wouldn’t cope.
Afraid that He didn’t exist.
Afraid that I was completely alone.
And four days later there was a single “hello” —
one that changed
not just my life —
but hundreds of lives around me.
My breath hitched.
My eyes filled with tears on their own.
“Nate…”
I breathed out,
not recognizing my own voice.
He already understood everything.
He looked at the earrings,
then at me.
His gaze — deep, quiet,
incredibly tender.
“Please wrap them up,”
he said to the shopkeeper,
without even asking the price.
The girls sensed the moment and discreetly stepped outside.
All of them — except the Aristocrat.
Cody literally dragged him away by the collar,
because he put on a performance,
sobbing and whispering:
“How beautiful love is… oh gods…”
Then he dropped his hat.
Then himself.
Then nearly the display case.
And I stood there as if in a fog.
Nate took my hands — gently, but so firmly,
as if afraid I might dissolve.
And I suddenly, quietly,
purely, for real — began to cry.
“Nate… what if you hadn’t written to me back then?”
My voice broke.
“What if… there had been no ‘hello’?”
In his arms,
memory opened its doors —
trustingly,
without defenses.
And I remembered
how it all happened.
The hello — short.
Dry.
Seemingly logical,
but without warmth.
Then he disappeared.
For a week.
I didn’t understand anything.
At all.
And then he came back.
Exactly on Sunday.
Just like back then,
when he wrote for the first time.
And after that
chaos began.
Schedules poured in.
Applications.
Schemes.
Numbers.
My head was spinning.
For a week.
Then another two.
He sent documents
in bursts,
chaotically,
as if he couldn’t stop.
And at some point
I realized
what he was doing.
He was showing me
how he was going to
build Earth Angels.
Not “advise.”
Not “discuss.”
Build.
And I thought:
maybe
I misunderstood him?
Maybe
he was just offering help?
But…
why would he?
God.
That English.
Those damn charts.
Numbers.
Formulas.
I was angry.
Truly angry.
I don’t understand his motives.
I don’t understand his benefit.
And I wrote to him directly:
“What are you doing?”
“Why do you need this?”
There was no answer.
But instead,
meetings appeared.
Calls.
Breakdowns.
Where he
trained me:
what to say,
where to pause,
how to hold the emphasis.
I watched him closely.
Damn.
He was clearly good at this.
And the question kept hitting the same place:
why does he need me?
Maybe
he wants to take my business?
Damn…
But he doesn’t look like that.
He’s not greedy.
Not predatory in that sense.
Not that type.
My God,
I don’t understand anything.
Nights thrown off.
The time difference tears the rhythm apart.
It’s four in the morning for me.
For him — only evening.
I look at the screen
and see:
he’s composed.
And at the same time — exhausted.
He’s just come home from work.
Tired.
Collected.
And he’s…
dealing with me here?
With me.
Building all of this?
Schemes.
Meetings.
Routes.
God,
why?
Maybe…
he’s in love with me?
But then why
not say it?
Why — like this?
Through documents,
charts,
control?
My God.
I don’t understand
what he’s doing.
I feel stupid.
I feel like
I’m playing
someone else’s game,
with rules
no one explained to me.
He sent me everything.
Everything.
Documents.
Visas.
Numbers.
Tickets.
Everything is already decided.
And I…
I don’t know.
I truly don’t know.
It’s a foreign country.
I’m alone.
With Roman.
And honestly —
I am completely
in his power.
How can I
allow this?
He controls everything:
when and with whom the meetings are,
arrival time,
the hotel.
All the cards
are in his hands.

My God,
how can I
go along with this?
Maybe
not tell him
which hotel we’re staying at?
God…
or…
oh God…
I pace back and forth.
The room is small,
the thoughts are enormous.
Damn idiot.
He dumped all of this on me
in one sweep,
and now what —
I’m supposed to
just continue?
Fly to him?
My God, Nazokat,
you don’t know him.
What if he’s unstable?
What if something goes wrong?
You’ll fly
with your son.
Alone.
And no one there
will protect you.
God.
What should I do?
Less than two months passed
before Roman and I flew to him —
and the work kicked off
at a frantic pace.
Roman is in my arms.
Literally.
I can’t trust him to anyone.
Not for a minute.
I try to solve things,
to get involved,
to understand,
but Nate is always
one step ahead.
He’s already there
where I’m only just
trying to figure out
what’s even happening.
Meetings.
One after another.
Faces.
Negotiations.
I don’t understand anything,
to be honest.
But I try
to trust him.
And then —
finally, Saturday.
I don’t even remember
which Saturday it was anymore.
Everything blurred together.
Days, weeks, nights.
Late.
Very late.
He comes to me
straight to the hotel.
Roman is asleep.
Breathing quietly.
The room is full of that nighttime silence
where any word
sounds too loud.
Nate has
just one chart in his hands.
One.
I look at it
and suddenly realize
that I can’t
anymore.
“What do you plan to do next?”
I ask.
Quietly.
Almost in a whisper.
“And what am I even
supposed to expect from you
going forward?”
He’s silent
again.
Damn.
Why did you even
come here then?!
And that’s when
it hits me.
I cry.
For real.
Because
there’s just
no strength
left.
I held on
for so long.
I’m not a man,
damn it,
to grit my teeth
and drag everything along
without questions.
I can do that
sometimes.
But I’m
a girl.
In your head,
maybe,
everything is logical.
But I
don’t understand
a damn thing.
And I swear to God,
I say this
calmly,
through tears,
without hysteria:
“Roman and I
will fly out
on the very first flight
if you
don’t explain
everything to me.
Here.
And now.”
He exhaled.
And that exhale
somehow scared me more
than my own words before.
Because in that breath
there was no defense,
no justification,
no attempt to hold me back.
Just exhaustion.
Just silence.
And in that silence
something else
slowly
began to reach me.
Not as a thought.
As a bodily knowing.
Oh God.
I am here alone.
A foreign country.
A foreign city.
A foreign hotel room.
Night.
A child asleep.
The door is closed.
And suddenly everything
that used to be background
moves to the foreground
and becomes frighteningly clear.
Broad shoulders.
Hands.
A calm way his body is set.
This is a man.
Not abstract.
Not from messages.
Not from negotiations.
Real.
Physical.
And I am a woman.
Exhausted.
At my limit.
No one
will protect me.
No one.
Not because he’s bad.
But because that’s how the world works.
Neither police,
nor walls,
nor the right words
will make it here
in time.
I look at the door.
At the bed.
At the dark window.
And inside,
something turns cold.
God damn it, Nazokat.
How can you be so stupid.
How could you
end up
in a setup like this:
he controls everything,
he knows the routes,
the meetings,
the people.
And with that realization,
it becomes
truly frightening.
Quietly.
Coldly.
With full awareness of the consequences.
I try to breathe.
Think, think — what can you do?
I throw a quick glance at him.
Wait a second.
All this time, he hasn’t touched me.
My God, he hasn’t even looked at me.
On the contrary —
he’s been sitting a kilometer away,
as if I were contagious.
That calms me a little.
And exactly at that moment
he says quietly:
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
And that’s when
I look at him
more closely.
Because in his voice
there is no triumph.
No power.
There is guilt.
Real.
Heavy.
And — fear.
Yes.
Fear.
I suddenly understand:
he’s afraid
no less than I am.
He sits
like a man
who kept his distance
for too long
and still
ended up too late.
As if he has
already lost
and is simply waiting for the verdict.
I see
his jaw twitch.
How he swallows
before continuing.
As if the words
he’s about to say
could cost him
everything.
His job.
The project.
Me.
He finally looks straight at me.
Very straight.
And in that look
there is no predator.
There is a man
who has driven himself
into a corner
with his own feelings.
“I…”
he stops.
The pause stretches
far too long.
I’m already almost
not breathing.

“I love you.”
Ah.
I see.
Everything is clear now.
Now — truly clear.
He’s lost his mind.
And I’m such a fool
to have ended up here.
Of course.
Of course you love me.
How could it be otherwise.
A foreign country.
Night.
A child asleep.
You control everything.
And, naturally,
you love me.
Nazokat.
Stay calm.
This is not the time
for anger,
for truth,
for confrontations.
This is
survival mode.
Don’t scare him off.
Don’t escalate.
Put on a face.
Soft.
Understanding.
A little tired.
The kind of face
that provokes
neither aggression
nor the urge to continue.
I nod slowly.
Not sharply.
As if I need time
to digest what I’ve heard.
As if it’s
not dangerous.
Just…
unexpected.
“You…”
I pause,
choosing the tone.
“You caught me off guard.”
Perfect.
Neutral.
No judgment.
I shift my gaze
to the bed
where Roman is sleeping.
Very calmly.
Very naturally.
“It’s late,”
I say more quietly.
“And he’s asleep.”
“Let’s…”
another pause,
soft.
“Let’s come back to this
during the day.
When we’re both
in a better state.”
I stand up.
Not abruptly.
Without fuss.
As if
this is just an ordinary evening
that has simply
come to an end.
“You’re very tired,”
I add,
and it sounds almost caring.
“You really need
to rest.”
He exhales —
and finally says everything.
He realized I was the one
right away.
Not months later.
Not after all this race.
From the very beginning.
But he couldn’t come to me
just like that.
He didn’t know how.
Didn’t consider it right.
Because this is my project.
My name.
My face.
My idea.
How could he come to me
empty-handed?
With feelings — yes.
But with what else?
He said he very quickly understood
one simple thing:
results without me
were impossible.
Because without me
this project is
just schemes,
charts,
someone else’s logic.
And I am
its heart.
But the opposite was also true:
achieving those results
without his involvement
was practically impossible.
How could it all be imagined
without me?
How to conduct negotiations,
how to build a future,
if I am
the center of the structure?
And then he chose
the only path
he considered honest for himself.
He brought everyone in.
Set the processes in motion.
Mobilized people.
Wove me into the work
not as a woman,
but as a founder.
Step by step.
Without pressure.
Without confessions.
Without “I want.”
He kept silent
about his feelings
deliberately.
Because he didn’t want
to pressure me.
Didn’t want me
to choose him
because of emotion.
He wanted me
to see the result.
So that if he said
“I love you,”
it wouldn’t be an advance,
not hope,
not a plea.
But a fact.
And until that fact
existed,
he believed
he had no right
to speak.
He fell silent.
And in that silence
I suddenly realized
that all this time
he had been holding the pause
not because
he didn’t know
what he wanted.
But because
he knew
too well.
I stood there
trying
to process
all of it.
Slowly.
In pieces.
Alright.
Let’s assume.
Let’s assume
that in your head
this all looked logical.
But…
“Listen,”
my voice broke on its own,
“didn’t it occur to you…
I don’t know…
to tell me about this?!
Why couldn’t you just say it!”
I yelled.
The way people yell
when they’ve held it together
for far too long.
And of course,
I woke Roman.
“Mommy…”
A sleepy voice.
Half a whisper.
Damn it.
He climbed out of bed,
rubbing his eyes,
still half asleep,
and the world instantly
shifted
into another register.
“Mom…”
I had already stepped toward him,
but I didn’t make it.
“Hi, Nate,”
he mumbled sleepily
and, as if it were the most natural thing,
walked straight to him.
My
jaw
almost
dropped.
Because Nate
didn’t tense up.
Didn’t get flustered.
Didn’t freeze.
He simply
bent down,
picked Roman up
— confident, calm —
and began to rock him,
like a newborn.
Slowly.
Rhythmically.
Without words.
Oh my God.
Roman almost immediately
went limp,
nestled against him,
murmured something,
and started
to slip back into sleep.
Nate carried him back,
laid him down carefully,
tucked the blanket in,
let his hand linger
on his back —
just long enough.
And stepped out.
Simply
stepped out.
And I was left
standing
in the middle of the room
with that feeling,
Something
that cannot be faked.
Because children
feel energy.
Always.
If he had been
unwell,
dangerous,
false —
Roman would have
pulled away.
But he went
on his own.
Sleepy.
Without defenses.
I needed
one more second
to process
that.
And exactly then
the anger
hit me again.
“You know,”
I said sharply,
“do you even understand
what I’m going through here?
What if someone had lured you
to another country like this, huh?
And you just sit there, guessing
what’s going on in a person’s head!”
He lifted his gaze.
Attentive.
“If you want
all of this
to continue,”
I said, already wound up,
“then tomorrow
you’re taking me
to a store.”
He blinked.
“I’m going to buy myself
diamonds.”
He…
smiled.
“Laugh all you want,”
I jabbed a finger into the air.
“I’ll pick so many
that even you
will have to get nervous
about the price!”
And right then
he lit up.
Actually lit up.
“Madman,”
I said.
“You’re completely insane.”
“And also,”
I wasn’t about to stop,
“I’m getting myself
a bunch more handbags
and dresses.”
“Anything you want,
love,”
he said calmly.
“Ha!
I’m not your ‘love’!”
I snorted.
“My God,
where do you even
get that much money?
What are you,
trafficking people?”
He laughed.
Quietly.
Low.
And took a step
closer.
And that’s when
something
broke inside me
in a completely different place.
Because suddenly
I noticed…
No.
I remembered.
I’m actually
in a towel.
I’m naked —
there’s only a towel on me.
Oh my God.
And I hadn’t been thinking
about him
that way.
At all.
All my brainpower
had been occupied
with the nursery,
this system,
those damn schemes —
to hell with them.
And now
I suddenly
noticed
how handsome
he is.
And also —
something inside me
woke up.
Not a thought.
Not a feeling.
My body.
And I felt
uneasy.
Is it him?
I mean…
that one?
No.
No-no-no.
I laughed.
Abruptly.
Too loudly.
More from hysteria
than from humor.
“No,”
I told myself.
“That can’t be him.”
I had
waited for him
for so long.
I would have
recognized him immediately.
I would have…
I would…
I—
The thought
fell apart.
And suddenly
I understood.
My mind
was overloaded.
Stress.
Flights.
Time zone changes.
Roman in my arms.
The project.
People.
Responsibility.
I was constantly
thinking.
Deciding.
Controlling.
I simply
didn’t have time
to feel.
Intuition
couldn’t break through
that noise.
There was nowhere
for it to stand.
It wasn’t shouting.
It was waiting.
And now,
in this strange pause —
between anger and laughter,
between a towel and diamonds,
between a child and a man —
it finally
made itself heard.
Quietly.
Very quietly.
He tilted his head
slightly to the side.
That gesture —
not performative,
not self-satisfied.
That’s how people look
when they’re listening
not to words,
but to what’s happening
on the other side of words.
As if
he, too,
had been waiting
for this moment.
I caught myself
realizing that for the first time in a long while
I wasn’t analyzing.
Not checking.
Not calculating risks.
I was simply
looking.
And my body suddenly
reacted
before my mind.
Not with a spark.
Not with passion.
But with recognition.
Calm.
Warm.
Terrifyingly simple.
I tried to breathe —
oh my God, how is he so hot,
am I blind, how could I not have noticed this?
Oh God.
All this time
I hadn’t seen him.
I…
I truly
hadn’t seen him.
And in that second
something else reached me as well.
The fact that I hadn’t seen him as a man
had untied my hands.
Had made me
absolutely free.
Because what the hell —
I wasn’t planning
to sleep with him.
I wasn’t planning
to seduce him.
I wasn’t playing
any games.
I was simply
living.
I walked around him
in a robe.
Calmly.
I rushed out
when I overslept
in whatever I’d slept in,
after Roman
had decorated me
with his “jewelry”
of pasta and sauce.
Oh my God.
I came out
when he arrived
in a T-shirt,
in a robe,
in anything at all —
and on the move
asked him to turn away,
because I was already
getting dressed
in the process.
He, of course,
is perfection.
And I —
I’m eternally late.
When we went to meetings,
I stuffed food into myself
on the move,
washed it down with whatever was at hand,
in between things,
in between sentences.
In restaurants
I, as always,
took off my shoes.
Roman and I
tucked our legs under ourselves,
because
it’s more comfortable that way.
We ate with our hands.
Mashed potatoes.
Salad.
Everything mixed together.
And then
we grabbed the hot glass
with our hands too —
and it either
slipped and shattered,
or stood there
looking so unstable
it was scary to watch.
God…
but I didn’t think about it.
Because
that’s my nature.
That’s how I live.
And Roman
just learned it from me.
And now
I suddenly imagined all this
from the outside.
He —
all perfect,
collected,
radiant.
Standing.
Sitting.
Moving.
Breathing
next to us —
next to those
with a T-shirt
inside out,
and underwear…
well…
not even worth discussing.
Roman doesn’t like rules.
And actively
protests against them.
Oh my God.
I looked at him
one more time.
He was smiling
softly.
So beautiful.
So
calm.
So
luminous.
And I —
in a towel,
with curls
after the shower.
I shook my head.
No.
I need
time.
………
Another two weeks passed.
Two dense, heavy weeks
in which everything
finally
fell into place.
Documents finalized.
Signatures collected.
The right people brought in.
No fuss.
No chaos.
No “almost.”
Everything done
properly.
I felt it
not with my head —
with my body.
A short knock
on the door.
I opened it.
And he kissed me
immediately.
Not cautiously.
Not checking.
Just —
kissed me.

And I…
slapped him
so hard
that I’m still ashamed.
Though,
if I’m honest,
it was
kind of
called for.
Although I myself
still don’t fully know —
why.
He froze
for a split second.
And then…
he lit up.
He truly lit up.
“Love,”
he said calmly,
“I had to prove it to you.”
I looked at him,
my hands still trembling.
“I had to prove to you
that I was worthy of you.”
He spoke quickly —
broken, alive.
God, this was a completely different Nate,
not the one who had been power and control all this time.
“Now,”
when your dream
stands
on a foundation,
I can
show myself.”
I swallowed.
“Really?”
I asked quietly.
“Yes.”
And after a pause,
he took my hands in his:
“I just
couldn’t
do otherwise.”
“I wasn’t supposed to
give you myself
first.”
“I was supposed to
give you
your dream
first.”
He looked straight at me.
“I wanted
you to be
independent of me.”
“So that you would know:
all of this —
is yours.”
Oh my God…
And then
something inside me
finally
fell into place.
I began to understand.
He did
all of this
for me.
Truly.
Not as a game.
Not as an investment
in a woman.
But as
an act.
And suddenly
it became
very clear:
all of this —
is mine.
“Oh my God…”
I whispered.
“How much
did you work
to make this happen?”
He shrugged.
Lightly.
As if it were something
self-evident.
I smiled.
He took a step closer.
Another.
And I
buried my nose
into his shoulder.
Without words.
With gratitude.
With relief.
With that very feeling
that only comes
when you suddenly realize:
oh my God,
how good it is
that everything turned out
exactly this way.
And how good it is
that he is
right here.