𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

64 || Where Tulips Grow

Ribs - Lorde

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

Big hands, small touches.

Rough skin, soft brushes.

It's hard to concentrate. The words before me blur into the nothingness that they are while the finger absentmindedly tracing up my leg, nearly draws me into a perfect afternoon nap.

Silence stretches across the wooden floors, throughout the bookshelves, before settling between the man sat at the opposite end of the couch - tracing my skin as my feet lay across his lap, and the boy sat atop an arm chair across from him, studying the chess board between them.

It's the most comforting of its kind. A peace that comes in the presence of those you love. Until said man lands a smack to my thigh, "I didn't say you could stop."

I lower the book in my hand, it's just an inch but it's enough to peek at him over the rim of it. Despite his words aimed my way, Adrik doesn't look at me.

He's focused on the game before him, while his hand rests on my leg. It's a scene I'd never think to be my normal, but as I sit here and glance at the man, his blazer shrugged off and hung neatly across the room, while the face of his new watch glints a green that matches that of his tie, I know I'll gladly get use to it.

My silence finally drags his gaze, it's so blue, I'm surprised I haven't drowned to death. "Read it to me, D'yavolenok."

I hate that I share his attention with the book in my hands, but perhaps it's for the best because just like I'd done yesterday, the day before, and every other day, I read to him.

I understand nothing, I barely know the Russian alphabet, let alone enough to read him a novel, but I still try.

It's nothing but a string of stuttering while he listens, softly correcting me when I can't get the words right, even when he's seemed to memorize them all.

I get to the beginning of a new sentence and stop a moment to study the word. "U...Um.." The letters get harder to pronounce, so I stop, frustrated.

There's a soft poke to my calf. Adrik flattens his palm, runs it up and down my leg before looking over at me. "Umneye." He urges.

When he says it with such ease, I feel like an idiot.

"What does it mean?" I ask.

He looks back to the chessboard and moves a piece, "It's a term used in the same way Americans use Smartass."

The book in my hand folds shut, and I set it down. A devious smirk plays on my lips, "Ty umneye."

"I'm flattered." When he turns to look at me, he returns my smile. It's a slow stretch of his perfect lips, a soft touch to his sharp cheeks, while the little indents at the corners of his lips look almost like dimples. "But don't sell yourself too short, baby."

The second his words register and I see his smile for what it really is, smug and arrogant, mine drops. It isn't until I reach for my phone and translate it for myself that I realize I'd just told him he was smarter.

In retaliation, I kick my leg out into his lap, and murmur my response in a language he won't be able to understand, "Ya Hamar."