“I’m sure.” I lean and press my lips on his forehead. “Can’t you see that for yourself?”
He lets go of my hair, sliding his palm around my neck to cup my face and tilt my head up. I expect to see him smiling, but the expression on his face is serious.
“You’re very young, baby,” he says as he strokes my cheek with his thumb. “What if you meet someone along the way and decide that this . . . us . . . is not it for you? I don’t think I could survive watching you walk away again, mishka.”
I peer at him for a minute, studying his flattened lips, his crooked nose, and his metallic gray eyes that sometimes say more than his words.
“What is love for you, Pasha?” I ask and brush the back of my fingers down his face.
“The feeling of never being close enough.” His other hand comes to the ba
