I slowly open my eyes, and the first thing I feel is silence. A thick, almost tangible half-darkness envelops the room like a soft blanket, leaving only a small island of light near my bed. There, at my desk, Katrin sits, hunched over a plate. The warm yellowish glow of the desk lamp falls on her face, highlighting her features—eyes slightly narrowed from exhaustion, a relaxed smile, a strand of hair escaping her messy ponytail. She's eating something, lazily chewing, while on the monitor in front of her, frames of a cooking show flicker—a chef frying something in a pan, and even from here, I can hear the muffled sound of sizzling oil.
I try to move—and immediately catch myself realizing the pain is gone. No sharp burning, no dull heaviness—just lightness, as if my body has finally remembered what it feels like to be whole.
The rustle of bedsheets gives away my awakening. Katrin sharply turns her head, her eyes widening, her lips parting slightly in surprise. The spoon clinks softly against the table, and before I can say anything, she's already on her feet. Her bare feet barely touch the floor, her movements swift, almost weightless, as if she's afraid I'll disappear if she doesn't reach me fast enough.
I can't hold back a smile.
"You could've finished eating, no need to rush!" My voice comes out hoarse from long silence, but there's no irritation in it—just warm, slightly tired tenderness.
My heart clenches with something sweet and aching. Katrin is here. She stayed, just as she promised, even though I know how hard it is for her to sit still. Her rebellious nature craves movement, action, but for me, she endures these four walls, boring TV shows, and my endless slumber. And the realization fills me with such stupid, overwhelming happiness that I almost laugh.
Rebel Girl sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress, and her fingers gently wrap around my palm. Her hands are warm, but there's no usual confidence in her touch—just a slight tremble, as if she still doesn't believe I'm really awake.
I squeeze her fingers in return, and her gaze finally meets mine. There's so much in those eyes—relief, exhaustion, something else too deep for words. But most importantly, she's here. With me. And that's enough.
"How are you? Does it hurt?" she asks with the same fear she had this morning.
"No. No pain at all, so don't worry." I try to sit up, then stand, but Katrin stops me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't get up! Rest a little longer!" she insists, but I feel fine, and after sleeping so much, I don't want to stay in bed.
"Don't worry, I'm already okay," I say, placing my hand over hers.
Standing up, I stretch—my bones let out a satisfying crack—and with a lazy yawn, I shuffle toward the bathroom. The morning (or is it evening already?) light filters softly through the curtains, painting the room in warm, drowsy hues. The water from the tap refreshes my face, washing away the last remnants of sleep.
When I return, Rebel Girl has already finished her breakfast (dinner? Damn, I'm confused again) and stands by the sink, rinsing the plates. Water bubbles under her fingers, and on the table, a second portion of food waits—neatly arranged, still warm.
I come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, and press my lips to her cheek. Her skin smells like soap and something sweet—maybe jam from the toast she had.
I've completely lost track of time with this new schedule. I quickly get used to waking up early in the morning and going to bed in the evening, unlike the schedule we had when Katrin wanted it her way. Back then, we'd get up after noon and stay awake until dawn.
"Thanks for breakfast. Oops, I mean dinner," I laugh, feeling her squirm in my arms.
"You're welcome. Get well soon," she says quietly, her voice strangely soft, and in that last word, I catch the faintest tremble.
Katrin turns her head, her eyebrow arched in question, but her eyes hold understanding.
"Still can't get used to us living like normal people, huh?" I tease her with the question.
"Well, you know…" She flops onto a chair, and I sit beside her. "It was easier before. Wake up at three in the afternoon, have dinner at five, and at seven in the morning—perfect time for breakfast. But you? You're like some old man yawning by ten at night."
"A well-rested old man," I jab my fork into the scrambled eggs. "And, for the record, a very happy one."
She smiles, dragging her finger along the rim of her cup, leaving a smudge on the glass.
"Fine… If you like it that much, I can go to bed earlier too."
"Wow," I say, pressing a hand to my chest in mock drama. "Rebel Girl voluntarily giving up her night vigils? The world really is ending."
"Shut up and eat," she hurls a napkin at me, but the corners of her lips tremble with a suppressed smile.
Her lips twist into a sad half-smile, and her eyes drop for a moment, as if studying invisible cracks in the floor.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
I sigh heavily, feeling familiar irritation rise in my chest, mixed with exhaustion.
"I'm sick of your 'sorry.' Stop saying it," the words come out sharper than I intended, but I can't stop now. "I forgave you a long time ago. And about the morning… it's my fault for starting it. It's fine—the doctor said the pain will be almost gone in a couple of days, and by Monday, I'll be back to normal."
Katrin freezes, her fingers gripping the edge of the table, knuckles whitening from tension.
"Sor—" She catches herself, as if stopping something forbidden, and presses her lips together. "Yeah… I've been apologizing too much lately."
Silence stretches between us—thick and awkward.
The food really is good—or maybe I'm just insanely hungry after sleeping so long. But I eat quickly, almost greedily, feeling warmth spread through my stomach, bringing back strength.
"Where's Dimka? His medicine actually helped a lot," I ask, just to break the heavy quiet.
Katrin is now sitting on the edge of my bed, legs tucked under her, staring somewhere toward the window where evening shadows gather outside.
"Some girl came by, and he left with her," she shrugs slightly. "Said not to wait for him until morning. Sent his regards."
"Got it," I nod, finishing the last bite, then stand to wash my plate.
But the moment I reach for the sink, Katrin abruptly rises and intercepts me.
"I'll do it," her voice is firm, almost harsh, but her eyes hold something else—worry, guilt, a desperate need to do something.
I want to argue, but I see her fingers gripping the plate like she'll crush it if I try to take it. So I just step back.
She turns to the sink, her back tense, shoulders trembling faintly.
Water rushes, mixing with the clatter of dishes. I stand and watch as her hands—usually so confident and quick—move mechanically now, as if she's afraid that if she stops, something will shatter completely.
And in that moment, I suddenly understand: she needs this. Washing the plate, cleaning, keeping busy—because otherwise, she'd have to just sit and think. And thinking hurts her the most right now.
So I just silently step closer, wrap my arms around her from behind, and rest my chin on her shoulder.
She stills for a second, then relaxes, leaning back against me. Water runs, bubbles foam, and we just stand there, not saying a word. Because sometimes, words aren't needed.
Gently but firmly, I pry the plate from her hands and set it on the table with a dull thud.
Her eyes flicker with something between alarm and anticipation as I press her against the wall.
The wall is cool even through the thin fabric of her shirt, but her body is scorching hot.
"Wait—what about your allergic burn? What if something goes wrong again?" Her words are a last bastion of reason, but her breath is already uneven, her lips seeking mine.
I don't answer—just press my mouth to her neck, feeling her pulse race under her skin. These days without her have been torture. Even if my whole body caught fire right now, I wouldn't stop. Every gasp, every moan from her is worth any pain.
Her palms push against my shoulders—a weak resistance. But her body speaks a different language: hips arching into me, fingers digging into my back as my hand slides down her thigh.
"You—you're really—" Her voice hitches when my fingers grip the soft curve of her ass.
In response, she hooks her leg around my waist with predatory grace. Now there's not a millimeter of space between us—just heat, damp skin, and the wild rhythm of our hearts.
I nip at her lower lip, feeling her shudder. She's always been my temptress—flexible, dangerous, unbearably sweet in her sin.
"I missed you so much," I whisper as her nails rake down my back.
"Prove it," her reply is more of a moan as my fingers find the waistband of her panties.
And I do. With every touch, every kiss, every breath she takes that now belongs only to me.