He doesn't ask where I've been.That's the thing about Vincent. He gives me space as a feature not a flaw, this deliberate, principled looseness of hold, and usually I love it and tonight when I come through the door at seven with cold-coffee thoughts and Mikhail Volkov's pale eyes still somewhere in my peripheral awareness, the space he gives me feels like something I have to walk across before I reach him.I kiss him hello and he kisses me back, warm and present, and his hand cups my face briefly in the way he does, like checking I'm real, and then he goes back to the stove and I sit at the kitchen counter and watch him cook and try to locate myself in the room."Natasha's installation is coming," I say."Good," he replies."I walked back through Belleville," I say. Which is true."Mm," he says.He doesn't ask anything else and I don't offer anything else and we eat dinner and talk about other things, his Amsterdam broker, my Sorbonne seminar on Thursday, whether the restaurant on R
Last Updated : 2026-04-14 Read more