that afternoon

Later that day, Victor came to see you. His hand was warm as it brushed your cheek, the rough edge of his thumb grazing your skin with a tenderness that always disarmed you. His deep voice wrapped around the words like velvet.

“You have done so well this week, Moya Printsessa (My Princess). I am very proud of you.”

The compliment sent a ripple through you, pride swelling in your chest, heat rising to your face. You smiled before you could even stop yourself, though in the back of your mind a curious thought tried to surface—why does his opinion matter so much to me? You shoved it down quickly, because the weight of his gaze, the warmth in his tone, made all other questions scatter like dust.

Victor straightened, his eyes gleaming with something you rarely saw in him—excitement. “I have a nagrada (reward) for all your hard work… for your great progress.”

He rose, extending his hand, and you slid yours into it almost without thought. His grip was firm, steady, guiding you as he led you back into the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of coffee and stone fruit, but your attention was caught immediately by the neat white box sitting on the glass table.

Victor gestured toward it, a rare, almost boyish hesitation in his movements. “I wanted to surprise you.”

The box was already open, and nestled inside was a gleaming new phone. Your eyes widened.

“I know you lost yours in the accident,” Victor continued, watching your face intently, almost nervously. “And Yulia—the old Yulia—did not have one for this country yet. I have already configured it with Yulia’s accounts. So…” He pushed it toward you. “Here.”

You blinked, staring at the gift, your chest tightening at the unexpected thoughtfulness. Victor, who so often carried himself like an immovable mountain, seemed uncertain now, as if afraid you might reject the offering. That alone made you smile, the corners of your mouth tugging upward sweetly.

“Victor is always so kind to me,” you thought with a sudden, earnest warmth. “Always giving me such thoughtful things.”

Before he could say more, you rose onto your toes and pressed your lips against his cheek, a quick kiss that left a faint trace of warmth on his skin. His reaction—his eyes widening first with surprise, then softening into unmistakable joy—made your heart beat faster.

“Spasibo, milaya! (Thank you, darling!) You are so wonderful to me. I love it!” you chirped, your excitement tumbling into your words.

Snatching up the phone with eager hands, you flicked it awake, scrolling through its contents. As he promised, it was already set up—apps neatly logged in, social media ready to open, even the wallpapers matched the style you vaguely remembered Yulia liking.

Curious, you tapped open Instagram. The most recent post was dated from the day she’d stepped off the plane in America. The silence since then suddenly felt like a gap that needed filling. Without hesitation, you lifted the phone, angled it high, and snapped a quick selfie—the soft light from the kitchen bouncing off your hair and the curve of your lips.

Caption: “my first picture in my new American home”

Satisfied, you hit post, feeling a little thrill run through you at the thought of her followers seeing it.

Victor chuckled, a low rumble of amusement, shaking his head slightly. “Always with the pictures, Moya Printsessa (My Princess)… one might think you were vain.” He leaned closer, his eyes shining with fondness. “But you have every right to be. You are very beautiful—boginya (a goddess).”

He paused, studying the way you glowed with your new toy, and then added with quiet certainty:

“And tomorrow… tomorrow you will get clothing befitting you.”