My Pretty Dirty Kitten
No no no.
I cannot lose my phone. What if Tamer texts? What if someone sees my private information? What if—
I do not even bother tying my hair back as I rush down the stairs, calling out for Dmitry.
Nothing.
I check the common room. Empty.
The kitchen is next, and I stop short at the doorway.
Dmitry is there. Sleeves pushed up, moving easily around the counter, music playing softly from somewhere I cannot see.
He is dancing.
Actually dancing. A slow, careless sway, shoulders loose, fingers tapping the counter in rhythm. He is even whistling.