Novels by Yuri

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen island. A screenshot. Her channel had crossed a number she'd been staring at for months—not the biggest milestone in the world, but hers. She stared at the screen, smiled, then sent it to him without any caption.His reply came three minutes later. Short. Characteristic.*I know.*She stared at the two words. No congratulations. No emojis.Just "I know. "She almost laughed. Of course he knew. He'd probably been checking her analytics more often than she did.That evening, she walked through the door and stopped.On the kitchen island sat a bottle of wine. The limited edition one she'd mentioned once, weeks ago, in passing, while scrolling through a website on her phone. She hadn't even remembered saying it out loud.No note. No wrapping. Just the bottle, waiting.He wasn't home. Still at the security firm. She opened the wine, poured two glasses, and drank one. The other she left on the counter, next to the coffee machine. His spot.She went to bed e

He went to the gym three times a week. Not for aesthetics—for function. It was one of the few habits he'd kept from his old life, like checking exits and scanning rooms.She'd never asked to go with him. She just showed up one Tuesday.He was already mid-set when she walked in.Tank top, black. His arms were bare.She'd seen them before—she'd touched them, traced them, fallen asleep against them—but never like this. Never under the fluorescent lights, where every muscle was pulled tight, every scar visible against his skin.She climbed onto the treadmill. Set it to a walk. She told herself she was going to exercise.She spent most of the time watching him.He was on the bench now. Barbell in his hands. Up, down, controlled, like he was measuring the air between each rep.No wasted motion. No sound. Just the weight and his breathing and the quiet strain of his jaw.She thought abo

He didn't warn her. He just started pulling things out of the fridge—chicken, garlic, a bundle of thyme she didn't remember buying.She watched from the sofa, her laptop open but forgotten on her knees."What are you doing?" She grabbed the cup from the table and drank.He didn't answer. He kept arranging ingredients on the counter.She closed her laptop. "Vincent. What are you doing."He turned to face her. His expression was neutral, but his ears were slightly pink. "Cooking."She nearly sputtered on her drink."You What? You don't cook.""Correct.""Then why are you—"She stopped.He was reaching for her apron. The one with the faded flowers on the front. The one she'd bought at a farmers market and never worn because it was too ridiculous.He tied it around his waist.She started laughing. Not a quiet laugh—a real one. The kind that made her shoulders shake an

The rain came down in sheets on Friday night. By the time Gaby sprinted from the Uber to the apartment lobby, she was soaked through.Her hair clung to her face. Her shirt stuck to her ribs.She left a trail of water across the marble floor, her shoes squelching with every step.The elevator ride felt endless. She watched herself in the mirrored walls—dripping, shivering, her mascara probably smeared. She looked like a drowned cat.When the doors opened, Vincent was already standing in the hallway.He had a towel in his hands.She didn't ask how he knew. He'd probably heard the rain. Or calculated her return time, the way he always did.He didn't say anything. Just stepped forward and draped the towel over her shoulders. His hands pressed down, once, firm, soaking up the worst of the water through the fabric. Then he pulled another towel from somewhere—she hadn't even seen him grab it—and placed it over her hea

She wrote at night. Not every night. Just when the apartment was quiet and Vincent was reading.The words came like something she couldn't hold back. She wrote in a battered notebook with coffee stains on the cover and a broken spine.He never asked. Never glanced at it when she left it on the coffee table. Never touched it.It had become their rhythm. She wrote. He read. They existed in the same room without needing to explain.Then one afternoon, she forgot it on the sofa.She'd been editing in the kitchen, the notebook still warm from where she'd been writing that morning. She didn't realize it was missing until dinner—when she looked over and saw it resting on the arm of the sofa, exactly where she'd left it.He was already at the table. His expression neutral. He pulled out her chair.She sat down. She didn't ask."What did you do today?" she asked.He looked up from his plate. "Nothing."She held his g

She was an hour late getting back from lunch.Traffic on the 101. She'd sent a brief message from the Uber—*Stuck. Home soon.*And she knew he'd been sitting with those four words for sixty minutes, resisting every instinct that told him to open Find My, to call, to make sure she was still breathing.She walked through the door. He was on the sofa. Reading. Or pretending to read. His shoulders were set in that rigid line she'd come to recognize—the one that meant he'd been fighting himself and was still not sure he'd won.She dropped her bag on the kitchen island. Walked over to him. Sat down beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his.She looked at the book in his hands. The pages were still. He hadn't turned one."You didn't track me," she said.He didn't answer."You wanted to. But you didn't.""I said I wouldn't.""I know." She reached over and put her hand on top of the book. "Thank you."He finally looked up. His jaw was tight. His eyes were tired. But he was he