Ch 22: The Longest Day
Around lunchtime, a soft knock came. The door opened. A young woman Elena didn't recognize carried a large tray. Behind her, Kazimir followed. He nodded once at the maid, who set the tray on the table and slipped out
Kazimir did not leave. He crossed to the table, lifted the dome from the tray, and assessed the contents.
"Sit," he said. "Eat."
Elena did not move. She stayed in the bed, her body rigid. She told herself she would not obey him like a trained animal.
He pulled out the chair across from the empty seat and sat down. He did not look at her. He opened a leather folder he had tucked under his arm, withdrew some papers, and began to read.
The silence stretched.
Her stomach growled. Loud.
She pressed her hand against her stomach, willing it quiet. But the smell of the soup—rich, warm, fragrant with herbs and meat—crept across the room. It wrapped around her, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Her body remembered hunger better than it remembered anger. Slowly, she rose. She crossed to the table and sat down stiffly, keeping her eyes on the bowl.
The soup was thick with vegetables and beef. Steam rose from the surface. Beside it, a thick slice of bread glistened with butter already melting into the crust.
She picked up the spoon.
Kazimir did not look up. He turned a page.
She took a bite. The warmth spread through her chest. Another bite. Then another. She tried to eat slowly, to maintain some dignity, but her body demanded more. The spoon moved faster. Halfway through the bowl, she realized he had not taken any food for himself. There was only one bowl. One plate. One glass.
Is this is all for me?
She looked at him. His papers were spread across his side of the table, but no plate. No cup. He had brought lunch for her and nothing for himself.
Elena lowered her gaze and finished the soup. Ate the bread. Drank the water. Her body felt heavy—warm, full. She could not remember the last time she had eaten until she was satisfied.
She set the spoon down.
Kazimir look up. His grey eyes swept over the empty bowl, the crumbs, the drained glass. He nodded once and stood. He took the tray to the door, set it outside, and spoke a few low words to someone in the hallway. Then he waited at the door.
When he returned, his arms were full. A laptop. A stack of folders. A heavy book. He carried them to the small table, pushed the chair aside, and arranged everything.
Then he sat and began to work. The scratch of his pen. The click of the keyboard. The shuffle of papers.
Elena retreated to a chair by the window. She watched the waves. She watched the clouds. She watched the way his shoulders hunched over the screen, the way he rubbed the back of his neck when he thought she wasn't looking.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The light faded from grey to deep blue to near-black. The room grew dim. Kazimir rose, crossed to the lamp on the bedside table, and turned it on. He did not turn on the harsh overhead light. He chose the lamp.
He's thinking about me, she realized. He's making choices based on what I might want.
No one had ever done that before. Her father had not. The men in the cellar had not. Even the maids brought her food with mechanical indifference.
Around dinnertime, the maid entered with another tray. Kazimir took it, set it on the table, and pulled out the chair.
He did not have to tell her to sit this time. Elena rose from the window and sat down, keeping her eyes on the tray.
Kazimir sat across from her. The files were pushed aside, the laptop closed. He was watching. Just like lunch, he had brought food only for her. There were no plates in front of him.
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She picked up the fork and began to eat. The silence was less uncomfortable now. Her hands trembled less.
From the corner of her vision, she saw him still staring at her.
He's not hungry? Or he's choosing to wait? she wondered.
She remembered the weeks before—stolen cornetti, dry toast, hunger that gnawed at her constantly. Now there was food. Plenty of it. And he was giving it to her without asking for anything in return.
Kazimir watched her the entire time. Halfway through the meal, he spoke. "You're not eating enough."
She froze, the fork hovering midway to her mouth.
"The broth," he said, nodding toward the small bowl. "Drink it. You need the liquid."
She stared at him.
He's watching what I eat. He's making sure I'm fed. How strange.
She set the fork down, picked up the broth, and drank.
Kazimir nodded. "Good. You did well."
You did well. The words landed in her chest, unexpected. Praise. From him. For eating.
She looked away, cheeks warming. She didn't want his approval. She didn't need it.
Kazimir stood. He walked to the bathroom, and she heard the faucet run. When he returned, he carried a small wet towel—warm, steaming slightly. He knelt in front of her chair.
Elena went rigid. Her hands flew to her chest, curling into fists. A man kneeling in front of her brought back the cellar—the way they had knelt to be at eye level, the way that had made her feel small and trapped.
"Your hands," he said quietly. "They're bleeding."
She looked down. Her cuticles were raw, red, torn. Some spots had crusted with dried blood. She had not noticed.
"I'm going to clean them. I'm not going to hurt you."
She shook her head and pulled her hands tighter.
Kazimir did not move. He knelt there, the warm towel draped over his palm, waiting.
"Please?"
The word landed strangely. Men like him did not ask. Her father had never asked. The men in the cellar had never asked.
Slowly, she extended one hand. Her fingers were curled, trembling. He did not pry them open; he waited until she uncurled them one by one.
Kazimir took her hand gently. He wrapped the wet towel around her fingers and dabbed at the torn cuticles. He worked in silence, head bowed. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held her hand as if it were something fragile.
Why does he care about my hands? They're just hands. They're ugly.
But he cleaned each finger as if it deserved attention. As if she deserved attention.
Her throat tightened. She looked away at the window, at the darkness beyond the glass. She would not cry. She would not.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The room grew darker. The small lamp cast long shadows across the walls.
Elena lay in the bed, facing the window. Behind her, she heard him shift in the chair. The thin rustle of papers. The slow clack of the keyboard. Then nothing.
She lay still, listening. One minute. Five. Ten.
No typing. No shuffling.
She turned her head, just enough to see him over her shoulder.
He had pushed the chair back from the table, legs stretched out. His head was tilted against the high back, mouth slightly open. Asleep.
The laptop was dark. A folder had slipped from his lap onto the floor, papers spilling out. His hands dangled limply on the armrests.
He looked exhausted. The lamplight carved lines into his face she had not noticed before. His neck was bent at an awkward angle. His head tilted too far back.
That's his choice, the angry voice said. He doesn't have to stay. He has other rooms. He can go sleep in any of them like a normal person.
But he hadn't. He had brought his work, fed her lunch and dinner, cleaned her hands, and then stayed.
Why?
She watched him for a long time. The rise and fall of his chest. His fingers twitching in sleep. His brow furrowed, as if even in rest he was troubled.
The anger was still there, coiled in her chest. It reminded her of the cellar. Of Marco's hands. Of Valentina's words. Of the weeks she had been left to the jackals.
But something else pressed beside the anger. Pity. Compassion. The echo of her own loneliness reflected in him.
He's trying, she thought. He's trying. And he's tired.
She thought about earlier when his hands cleaned hers. Gentle. Careful. Asking permission. He had not grabbed. He had knelt there, waiting, while she decided.
Elena sat up. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched the cold floor. She stood, walked to the chair, and stood over him.
He looked smaller asleep. Less like a wolf. More like a man. A tired, guilty man who had failed her and was now trying to make up for it. His hand was draped over the armrest, palm down. She could see the healing cuts on his knuckles—probably from a few days ago, after the marina.
She frowned. She tapped his shoulder once, lightly.
He woke instantly. His body snapped to alertness—hand twitching toward his hip, reaching for a weapon that was not there. His grey eyes were wide, disoriented, scanning the room for threat. Then he saw her face and relaxed.
"Elena?" His voice was rough, thick with sleep.
She pointed to him then the bed.
Kazimir stared. "You want me to..."
She nodded.
He sat up slowly, running a hand over his face, scrubbing the sleep away. His shoulders cracked—he winced.
"Are you sure?" Quiet. Cautious.
She did not answer. She just walked back to the bed, climbed in, and lay down on the far side. Her back to him, blanket tucked up to her chin.
A beat of silence.
Then the bed shifted. He climbed in carefully and stayed on his back. His hands rested at his sides. He did not reach for her or roll toward her.
The space between them was a foot of cool sheets.
Elena's heart hammered. Her body tensed, waiting for the arm to snake around her waist, the hand to grab, the weight to press.
But it didn't come.
The minutes stretched—his breathing slowing, deepening. He fell asleep.
She lay awake, staring at the wall. The anger was still there, coiled and waiting. She did not trust him. She did not forgive him. She just could not watch him suffer in that chair anymore. That was all.
Elena closed her eyes. His warmth seeped across the space between them. Not an embrace—she wouldn’t let herself mistake it for that—but still, it reached her.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/6/26