Chapter 10
651 Words
Ivan POV
It happens because I’m careless.
Not careless in the way that gets men killed—but careless in the way that happens when something becomes familiar. Routine. Predictable.
Dangerous.
I’m sitting on the examination table, shirt half off, ribs exposed. Olga is standing close, closer than usual, checking the healing with a frown that tells me she’s not satisfied.
“You moved wrong again,” she says.
“I moved,” I reply.
She exhales sharply. “Exactly.”
She presses along my side, fingers firm. I tense despite myself.
“Relax,” she orders.
I try.
She shifts position, stepping between my knees to get a better angle. Too close. I notice immediately, every instinct sharpening—but I don’t move.
Then she reaches for fresh gauze on the tray behind her.
And I move at the same time.
My hand comes up instinctively—to steady myself, to shift my weight—
And my fingers brush her waist.
Barely a touch.
Accidental.
But the contact detonates through me like a shockwave.
Olga freezes.
So do I.
My hand is still there, resting just above her hip, the curve of her waist fitting into my palm far too perfectly. Warm. Real. Not imagined.
Her breath catches.
I feel it.
Every muscle in my body locks as if I’ve just crossed a line marked do not step here in blood-red letters.
“I—” I start.
She turns slowly, eyes meeting mine.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The air thickens.
Her pulse jumps visibly at her throat.
I pull my hand back immediately, like the touch burned.
“Sorry,” I say, low and rough. “Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” she says quickly.
Too quickly.
She steps back, putting space between us like she needs it to breathe.
I hate that I’m the reason.
“I should’ve warned you,” she adds, forcing calm into her voice. “I was moving.”
“I should’ve paid attention,” I reply.
Silence drops again.
Not awkward.
Charged.
I see it then—the way her hands tremble just slightly as she reaches for the bandage. The way she avoids my eyes now, focusing too hard on her task.
The electricity is still there, buzzing under my skin, refusing to dissipate.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want to want her.
“You okay?” I ask, quietly.
She nods. “Yes.”
Lie.
I know because mine sounded the same way earlier.
She finishes the bandaging with more distance than before, movements quicker, more efficient. Professional walls snapping back into place.
I let her.
When she’s done, she steps back and clears her throat.
“You’re healing,” she says. “Slowly. Try not to get hurt again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She finally looks at me then.
Her eyes are steady—but something vulnerable flashes beneath the surface.
“Good,” she says. “Because I don’t want to keep fixing the same damage.”
The words hit harder than intended.
She turns away to clean up, and I stand, pulling my shirt back on with stiff fingers.
At the door, I pause.
“Olga.”
She doesn’t turn.
“That won’t happen again,” I say.
She hesitates, then nods once. “I know.”
I leave before either of us says something we can’t take back.
The hallway feels colder than usual.
I flex my hand once, like I’m trying to shake off a sensation that doesn’t belong there.
It doesn’t work.
Because the truth is simple and brutal:
That touch meant nothing.
And it meant far too much.
And if I don’t put distance between us soon—
I won’t be able to stop myself next time.
Which means I’ll lose control.
And control is the one thing I can’t afford to give away.
- Writer
