Chapter 40: Lunch time
The cafe's warmth enveloped them, a stark contrast to the industrial chill Alexey had just escaped. The low murmur of conversations, the sharp scent of espresso, the clatter of cups – it all felt miles away from the stunned silence of his office. Katya stirred her cappuccino, the foam swirling, her bright blue eyes fixed on him over the rim. The predatory glint had softened, replaced by something warmer, more familiar.
"You look lovely today, Katya," Alexey said, the words escaping before he could overthink them. He meant it. The crimson sweater, the ripped jeans, the cascade of blonde hair – she radiated a vibrant energy that commanded the room, even this crowded cafe. She’d always had that effect.
A genuine smile lit up her face, dimpling her cheeks. "Spasibo, Lesha," she replied, her voice losing its earlier smoky edge, slipping back into the comfortable cadence of family. She leaned back, pulling a wrapped sandwich from her oversized tote bag and sliding it across the table to him. "Ham and swiss. Your favourite from that deli near your old apartment, da?" Her gaze was observant, tracing the tension still held in his shoulders. "I wasn't just here to cause chaos, you know. Though that," she gestured vaguely back towards his workplace, "was definitely a perk. But really, I had a project meeting at the design firm two blocks over. Just wrapped up. Figured I’d swing by, see how my favourite engineer was holding up." She paused, her expression softening further. "Big day, tonight."
Alexey unwrapped the sandwich, the familiar smell a small comfort. He took a bite, the simple act grounding him. He met her eyes. "Honestly, Katya?" he swallowed. "I'm... glad you're here. Staying with us." It surprised him how much he meant it. Beneath the relentless teasing, the unsettling echoes of Pavel, she was Katya. His cousin. The one who’d shared summers by the Black Sea, who knew his grandmother’s recipes, who understood the weird melancholy of Russian pop songs. Her presence, chaotic as it was, felt like an anchor in the storm Sharon was deliberately whipping up inside him. "You... ease the nerves," he admitted, the words rough. "Even with the surprise ambushes."
Katya's smile widened, touched with real affection. She reached across the small table again, this time resting her hand lightly over his where it lay beside the sandwich wrapper. Her touch was warm, comforting. "Of course I do, dummy," she said softly, her teasing tone laced with sincerity. "That's what family's for. Even when we're accidentally causing office-wide existential dread." She squeezed his hand briefly. "And you know... I get it. More than you think I do." A flicker of something knowing – and perhaps a shared, painful memory of Pavel’s games – passed through her eyes before she blinked it away. "Tonight will be intense. But remember why it's happening. Why you want it to happen."
He held her gaze, the grey-blue of his eyes clouded with a tangle of desire, dread, and a desperate need he could barely articulate. He saw no judgment in her bright blue stare, only understanding and a fierce, protective loyalty beneath the playful exterior. She wasn't just teasing him towards the edge; she was standing beside him as he peered over it.
He finished the last bite of the sandwich, the simple act of eating restoring a sliver of normalcy. The buzzing anxiety hadn't vanished, but the sharp, jagged edges felt... blunter. Manageable. He pushed his chair back slightly. "I should get back. Carl was probably having a stroke."
Katya chuckled, gathering her things. "Probably. Worth it, though." She stood up, smoothing her tight jeans. She slipped the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder, the movement effortless.
"Hey, Katya?" Alexey stood too, meeting her eyes again. "Spasibo. Really. For lunch. For... stopping by." The gratitude was thick in his voice, encompassing far more than just the sandwich or the visit. For seeing him, truly seeing him, in the middle of this self-imposed madness.
Katya beamed in response, her whole face lighting up. She stepped forward and wrapped him in a quick, fierce hug. She smelled like expensive perfume and coffee and the faint, clean scent of her shampoo. "Anytime, Leshka," she murmured against his shoulder. She pulled back, holding him at arm's length, her expression serious for a heartbeat. "Go finish your schematics. Don't let Carl win." Then, the familiar mischief sparked back into her eyes. "And save all that delicious tension for tonight. You're going to need it." She gave his arm a final squeeze, turned, and walked out of the cafe with that same confident stride, leaving a trace of her scent and a lingering sense of calm resolve in her wake. Alexey watched her go, took a deep breath of the coffee-scented air, and turned towards the office, the image of Sharon in green already waiting for him in the shadows of his mind. But the knot in his stomach felt less like panic now, and more like anticipation, heavy and electric. Katya was right. He was going to need it.
The remaining hours crawled by in a haze of CAD models and stress ball compressions. Katya’s brief visit had indeed smoothed the jagged edges of his nerves, leaving a low, steady hum of anticipation instead of outright panic. Alexey focused on conduit layouts, the sterile glow of his monitor a welcome distraction from the vivid, unwelcome images of Sharon in green. Then, at exactly 4:58 PM, his phone buzzed with brutal finality against the laminate desk.
> (4:58 PM) Sharon: How is my look to you? My lover’s thinks it great! 😘
> Attachment: 1 Image
Alexey’s breath hitched. The photo flooded the screen: Sharon, radiant and devastating in the emerald dress. It clung to every lush curve, plunging daringly at the front, the fabric shimmering under soft lighting. Her smile was pure, wicked triumph, dark eyes sparkling, dimples deep. She looked like every forbidden fantasy made real.
Immediately, another text bubble popped up.
> (4:58 PM) Sharon: Oops, I meant to say Mark, but you yourself called him lover, so I guess it’s okay🤭!
The words my lover burned into his retinas. His own throat felt suddenly dry and tight. His fingers trembled slightly as he stared at the screen, at her perfect, teasing face, at the dress bought explicitly for another man. The low hum in his gut surged into a roaring wave of heat and sharp, sweet humiliation. He saw her walking into the bar, saw Mark’s appreciative gaze, saw everyone’s gaze.
"Fuck this," he muttered under his breath, the sound rough in the quiet office. Carl was already packing up. Brenda was gone. Alexey slammed his laptop shut, the noise startlingly loud. He shoved his chair back, snatched his keys and jacket. He couldn’t sit here. He couldn’t think here. Every schematic, every calculation, dissolved into the image of Sharon offering that dress-clad body to Mark, calling him lover. He stalked out, ignoring the curious glance from Dave near the exit. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects overhead. Home. He just needed to get home. He wouldn’t be able to focus on anything anyway. The drive was a blur of stoplights and the pounding echo of Sharon’s texts in his head: My lover’s thinks it great… you called him lover… okay🤭. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, the denim of his jeans painfully tight against the constant, aching throb. He parked haphazardly in his driveway, fumbled with the house key, and pushed inside. The air was still, quiet, smelling faintly of jasmine and Sharon’s abandoned coffee mug. Katya was out. He stood in the dimming living room, the silence amplifying the frantic drumming of his heart. Six o'clock loomed like a physical weight. He sank onto the couch, not bothering with lights, staring unseeing at the blank TV screen. Waiting. The ache in his groin was a deep, insistent pulse, synchronizing with the ticking clock. My lover. Sharon’s playful emoji seemed burned onto the inside of his eyelids. He leaned his head back against the cool leather, closing his eyes, surrendering to the excruciating wait. Every minute stretched, taut and thin, vibrating with the promise and the terror of what Sharon was doing right now. Dressing. Applying perfume. Smiling at Mark. Calling him lover. Alexey shifted, the fabric of his jeans rasping against his painfully hard cock. He could almost smell her chosen scent, feel the imagined brush of her hand on Mark’s arm. The silence of the house pressed in, heavy and expectant. He was going to need it.
The silence pressed down like wet wool. Every tick from the antique clock on the mantel echoed like a hammer blow against Alexey’s skull. He stared at the blank TV screen, seeing only Sharon’s devastating photo: the emerald dress clinging to every perfect curve, her smile triumphant, the words my lover burning like acid in his mind. His cock throbbed a relentless counterpoint to the clock, a physical ache mirroring the raw scrape of humiliation inside his chest. He shifted on the leather couch, the material groaning under his weight, the friction against his jeans sending a fresh jolt of frustrated need through him. He was going to need it. Every ounce of self-control he possessed, scraped raw and brittle.
The sudden snick of the front door lock cut through the oppressive quiet. Alexey flinched. Soft footsteps padded down the hallway, accompanied by the faint rustle of fabric and a familiar, clean scent cutting through the lingering jasmine. Katya appeared in the arched doorway to the living room, silhouetted against the fading daylight from the hall. She wasn't in her earlier crimson statement. Instead, she wore sleek, charcoal grey leggings that hugged her slender legs and toned stomach like a second skin, paired with a cropped, form-fitting sports top in electric blue. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a high, practical ponytail, exposing the graceful line of her neck. Running shoes dangled from her fingers.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice warm and grounding in the dim room. She dropped her shoes by the door and padded barefoot towards him. "Couldn't leave you stewing here all alone in this state." She perched on the arm of the couch beside him, her bright blue eyes scanning his tense posture, the lines of strain around his mouth. "Sharon messaged me. Said you’d probably be climbing the walls by now and I should make sure you don't lose your mind before she gets back." A small, affectionate smile touched her lips. "She knows you too well, huh?"
Alexey let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The tight knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. The image of Sharon, even indirectly, caring enough to send Katya, eased the sharpest edge of his isolation. "Yeah," he managed, his voice raspy. "Probably." He looked up at Katya, taking in the concern mixed with her usual lively energy. "Spasibo, Katya. To both of you." The gratitude was thick, genuine. He wasn’t alone. They were both looking out for him, even as they pushed him towards this precipice. Her presence was a lifeline, chaotic but real.
Katya’s smile widened, dimpling her cheeks. She nudged his shoulder gently with hers. "What are cousins for?" Her gaze, warm and perceptive, drifted downwards. It lingered for just a moment on the unmistakable, straining bulge tenting the front of his jeans. Alexey felt heat flood his neck and ears, a fresh wave of embarrassment crashing over the gratitude. Katya didn't look away. Instead, a knowing, gentle amusement softened her expression. She met his eyes again, her voice low and understanding, devoid of mockery but tinged with that familiar, dangerous warmth. "I guess my presence doesn't exactly help with your... constant arousal, huh?"
Alexey gulped. Audibly. The sound was stark in the quiet room. His throat tightened, locking any response inside. He couldn’t deny it. The sight of her, vibrant and athletic, clad in skin-tight fabric that left little to the imagination, combined with the swirling vortex of anticipation and dread about Sharon, was gasoline on the fire already raging in his blood. He felt exposed, raw. Katya saw it all – the need, the shame, the overwhelming pressure building since Monday. Her understanding felt both comforting and terrifyingly intimate. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Remember Pavel?" The name hung in the air, heavy with shared, complicated history. "I know that look. That feeling." She patted his knee, the touch brief but grounding. "Come on. Let's get out of this gloomy cave. I skipped my run for you. Least you can do is keep me company while I raid your fridge." She stood, offering him a hand up, her eyes holding his, offering silent solidarity amidst the storm.
Alexey took Katya’s offered hand, her grip surprisingly strong as she pulled him up from the couch’s sunken leather. The simple touch, the act of moving, broke the suffocating inertia. "Alright," he rasped, clearing his throat. "Fridge raid it is. Just... try not to judge the lack of actual groceries."
Katya laughed, the sound bright and immediate in the dim space. "Pfft, judging? Leshka, I survived three months with Pavel living off instant noodles and cheap vodka. Your fridge is practically a Michelin-starred bistro compared to that." She led the way towards the kitchen, her ponytail swishing, the tight leggings emphasizing the lean muscles in her legs and backside. The scent of clean sweat and her citrusy shampoo trailed after her.
The harsh fluorescent kitchen light was jarring after the living room gloom. Katya beelined for the fridge, yanking it open with gusto. "Right," she declared, peering inside. "Eggs, cheese... random half a bell pepper... leftover stir-fry noodles Sharon made? That works." She started pulling containers out with efficient energy. "You chop the pepper, I'll handle the eggs. We're making survival scramble."
Alexey grabbed a knife and the pepper, the mundane task a welcome anchor. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the blade on the cutting board filled the quiet. He watched Katya crack eggs into a bowl with practiced ease, her movements fluid. "How was the rest of your day? After... the office ambush?" he asked, focusing on the green flecks piling up.
"Eh," she shrugged, whisking the eggs vigorously. "The design firm presentation was fine. Client wants the logo to be 'bigger but smaller' and 'more vibrant but also muted'. You know, the usual creative genius requests." She grinned, dumping the noodles into a sizzling pan with butter. "Met up with Anya after – she’s that Ukrainian girl from my art history class? Total blast. We window-shopped, mocked terrible street fashion, got overpriced smoothies." She scraped the chopped pepper into the pan alongside the noodles. "Normal stuff. Unlike some people," she added pointedly, tossing the scramble mixture in with a satisfying hiss, "who are apparently just vibrating with tension in dark rooms."
Alexey managed a weak smile, stirring the concoction as it began to set. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... Sharon’s text. That photo. Calling him 'my lover'."
Katya flipped the scramble expertly. "Oof. Brutal. But hot, right? Admit it." She didn't wait for an answer, plating the food with quick scoops. "Here. Eat. Distraction tactics commence." She pushed a plate towards him at the small kitchen table, grabbing forks.
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the simple, savory scramble hitting the spot. The immediate physical pang of hunger eased, replaced by a different kind of emptiness. Katya polished hers off quickly. "Okay," she announced, pulling out her phone. "Distraction phase two. Emergency Tinder therapy." She swiped it open, already scrolling. "God, the garbage on here today is next level. Look at this one!" She thrust the phone at Alexey. A profile picture showed a man posing shirtless in a bathroom mirror, flexing awkwardly, a toothbrush protruding from his mouth. Bio: 'Just a simple guy looking for a queen. Must love snakes (I have 7).'"
Alexey snorted, a genuine laugh escaping him. "Snakes? Seven? Where does he even keep them?"
"Right?" Katya cackled, swiping left dramatically. "Next! Oh dear lord..." She showed him another: a man holding a large fish with a dead-eyed stare. Bio: 'Professional fisherman. My boat is my lady. You can be my shore leave.'" She mimed gagging. "Pass. Hard pass." She swiped left again.
They fell into an easy rhythm, Katya rapidly swiping through profiles, narrating the horrors and occasional gems, Alexey offering commentary. The sheer absurdity was strangely therapeutic. "This guy looks okay," Katya mused, stopping on a profile. Decent photo of a guy laughing at a concert. Bio seemed normal. "Hmm. Cute smile. Decent job listed. Maybe..." She didn't swipe yet, just studied it.
"Go for it," Alexey encouraged, leaning back in his chair, finally relaxing a fraction. "He seems... human. Unlike Snake Charmer or Captain Ahab over there."
Katya grinned, swiping right. "Done. Your turn. Find me a winner, Leshka." She handed him her phone.
Alexey scrolled, his engineer's brain trying to analyze profiles logically. "Too intense," he muttered, swiping left on a guy listing his Myers-Briggs type and demanding the same. "Too vague... 'Likes travel, food, fun'. Who doesn't?" Left. "Ah! Look." He showed her a profile. Guy rock climbing, genuine smile. Bio: 'Graphic designer (yes, I'll judge your fonts), loves indie films and terrible karaoke.'
"Ooh! Good eye!" Katya took the phone back. "Designer? Potential common ground. And knows his fonts? Sold." She swiped right decisively. "Okay, profile needs work though. My pics are getting stale. Help me take some new ones? That light in here is actually decent now." She gestured towards the large window where the setting sun cast a warm, golden glow across the kitchen tiles.
Alexey raised an eyebrow. "Right now? In the kitchen?"
"Why not?" Katya hopped up, striking a playful pose leaning against the counter, the fading sunlight catching the flyaway hairs around her face and making her blue eyes sparkle. "Candid kitchen chic. Go!" She tossed him her phone.
He stood, opening the camera app. "Okay, okay. Look... thoughtful. Like you're contemplating the meaning of... burnt toast."
Katya laughed, the sound bright, then schooled her features into an exaggeratedly serious expression, chin resting on her hand. He snapped a few. "Too staged," she declared, peering at the results he showed her. "More natural. Talk to me while you take them."
He kept the camera up. "Alright. So... how are the snakes? Still seven?"
She burst out laughing again, shaking her head, eyes crinkling. He captured it – genuine joy radiating from her. "Perfect!" she grinned. "That's the one." She moved, leaning against the fridge now, arms crossed, a confident smirk playing on her lips. "How's this? 'Don't need saving, thanks.'"
He took the shot. "Intimidating. In a good way." She tried different angles – perched on a stool, looking over her shoulder; leaning in the doorway back to the hall, the soft light from the living room framing her. Alexey moved around, finding the light, focusing on capturing her vibrant energy. He noticed the way the electric blue of her top contrasted with her skin in the golden light, the definition in her arms. He took a dozen shots.
Katya scrolled through them, humming thoughtfully. "Hmm... delete that one, my arm looks weird... oh, love this laughing one! Yes! This smirky one against the fridge is fire. Ooh, the doorway one's moody, I like it." She selected five, her fingers flying over the screen to upload them. "Definite upgrade. Thanks, Leshka. You’ve got a decent eye." She looked up at him, her expression warm. "See? Distraction successful."
Alexey realized with a jolt that she was right. For nearly an hour, the gnawing dread of Sharon at the bar, wrapped in emerald silk, whispering my lover to Mark, had receded. It wasn't gone, but it had faded into the background noise, drowned out by Katya’s laughter, the absurdity of Tinder, the focused task of capturing light and angles. He’d breathed. He’d almost forgotten the suffocating weight of anticipation and humiliation. He felt... present. Calmer.
"Spasibo, Katya," he said, the gratitude deeper this time. "Really. That helped."
"Told you," she said, standing and stretching. "Emergency Tinder therapy and impromptu photoshoot. Works every time.”