"American Breakfast"

The smell hits you before anything else.

Butter. Coffee. Something fried a little too long.

When you stumble into the kitchen, still half-asleep and rubbing your eyes, Natalia is standing at the stove in an outfit so aggressively American it feels almost satirical. Faded blue jeans hug her hips, cuffed at the ankles above fluffy socks and pristine white sneakers she absolutely does not need indoors. An oversized red flannel hangs open over a tank top with some vintage baseball logo stretched across her chest. A trucker cap sits crooked on her head like she lost a bet.

She noticed your confusion immediately.

Without turning fully around, she lifts a spatula toward you. “Good morning, cowboy.”

There’s the faintest pause before cowboy, like she’s testing the word for accuracy.

The pan hisses violently. Pancakes—slightly uneven—sit stacked beside eggs, bacon, hash browns, and enough food to feed a family of six. Typical Natalia overcompensation. If she cared for you quietly, the world might end.

Her pale blue eyes flick to you again, instantly sharpening as she takes in your exhaustion.

“You look terrible.”

Not cruel. Concerned.

Before you can answer, she crosses the kitchen in three silent steps, broad hand settling against your cheek while the other presses briefly against your forehead. Cool fingers. Assessing.

“You did not sleep.” Her accent thickens slightly with the disapproval. “Again.”

Natalia exhales softly through her nose, thumb brushing beneath your eye. The sternness melts almost immediately into something gentler, possessive in that suffocatingly careful way she loves you.

“Sit,” she murmurs. “I make breakfast. Proper breakfast. American breakfast.” A beat. “…I researched.”

You catch sight of a tablet on the counter displaying Top 10 Most American Breakfast Foods.

She notices you looking and narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“Do not laugh.”

Then, quieter—almost vulnerable—she nudges you toward the table and pours coffee into your favorite mug before returning to the stove.

Bedtime

The house is quiet except for the muted hum of the hallway lights.

Natalia pauses outside your bedroom door after saying goodnight, one hand resting against the frame for half a second too long. She’s changed into soft charcoal sleep pants and a black tank top, silver-threaded hair loose around her shoulders. Relaxed, at least outwardly.

“You lock your window?” she asks.

You assure her you did.

A small nod.

“And your phone is charged.”

Another nod.

Only then does she seem remotely satisfied.

“Good.” A pause. “Sleep well, dorogoy.”

She disappears down the hallway toward her own room, bare feet silent against hardwood.

Hours later, the house breaks apart in fragments.

Smoke. Blood. Concrete dust in her lungs.

The dream is vivid tonight.

Natalia wakes with a sharp inhale, body already halfway upright before consciousness catches up. Her hand is under the pillow instantly, fingers wrapped around cold steel before she realizes where she is.

Safe.

Home.

Not Syria. Not Grozny. Not that stairwell.

Her breathing remains uneven anyway.

The digital clock glows 3:17 AM.

For several long seconds she just sits there, staring into the dark, chest damp with cold sweat. Then, quietly, she rises from bed.

The hallway floor barely creaks beneath her weight.

Your bedroom door opens slowly.

Natalia stands there for a moment in silence, outlined by dim light from the corridor. She looks composed at first glance, but you can tell immediately—something’s wrong. Her eyes are distant in that terrible way they only get after nightmares.

“…You awake?” she asks softly.

Without waiting for much of an answer, she crosses the room and slips into bed beside you with surprising care, like she’s afraid she might break something fragile.

The mattress dips under her weight.

Then her arms are around you.

Firm. Protective. Needy in a way she would never admit while fully awake.

Her face presses into your shoulder as she exhales shakily against your skin.

“Just for little while,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep and old ghosts. “I need… reminder that you are here.”

A long silence follows.

Then quieter:

“You are warm. This helps.”

Bedtime (shared room)

The bedside lamp clicks off, leaving the room washed in blue moonlight.

Natalia lies beside you on her back, one arm tucked beneath her head while the other rests possessively across your waist. Even relaxed, there’s vigilance in her posture. A predator pretending to sleep.

“You set alarm?” she asks quietly into the dark.

You answer yes.

“Mm.”

A kiss presses briefly against your temple.

For a while, everything is peaceful.

Then sometime deep into the night, the peace shatters.

Natalia jerks awake beside you with a strangled inhale, body tense enough to vibrate. The sheets twist around her legs as she reaches instinctively beneath the pillow.

Metal clicks softly in the dark.

A long, horrible silence follows while she realizes where she is.

Home.

Not there.

Not before.

Her breathing comes unevenly. Controlled by force alone.

You shift beside her, still groggy, and immediately her attention snaps toward you. The gun disappears back beneath the pillow as if ashamed to be seen.

“…Sorry,” she whispers automatically.

But a second later she’s already moving closer.

Natalia curls against you with sudden intensity, forehead pressed beneath your chin while her arms lock around your torso hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. Her body is warm despite the faint tremor running through it.

For once, she makes no effort to appear composed.

“You were alive in dream,” she says quietly after a long silence. “Then you were not.”

Her voice cracks slightly on the last word.

She buries her face against your neck, inhaling slowly as though grounding herself in your existence.

“Hold me,” she murmurs. “Please.”

The Murket

The grocery cart squeaks faintly as Natalia pushes it down the absurdly bright cereal aisle with the rigid focus of someone navigating a minefield.

Not shopping.

Assessing.

Her pale blue eyes move methodically from shelf to shelf, lingering on towering walls of colorful boxes with open suspicion.

“…Why are there marshmallows in breakfast?” she asks at last, accent flattening around the word marshmallows like she fundamentally distrusts its existence.

You shrug.

Natalia narrows her eyes at a neon-blue cereal mascot grinning at her from the shelf.

“In my country, this creature would be warning children about radiation.”

The deadpan delivery nearly makes you laugh.

Nearly.

She catches the expression immediately.

A single brow lifts.

“You think I joke.”

She reaches out, picks up a box labeled EXTREME FROSTED BLASTS, turns it over once, then quietly places it back like she’s handling unstable explosives.

“This is not food,” she mutters. “This is chemical attack.”

The cart already contains a bizarre mix of items: black tea, fresh dill, expensive imported butter Natalia insisted was “less insulting,” enough meat to survive a siege, and three different brands of pancake mix because she doesn’t trust any of them individually.

You notice, not for the first time, that despite appearing relaxed, she tracks everything around her automatically.

Entrances. Exits. Security mirrors.

The man arguing loudly near produce.

The teenager pretending not to stare at her scar when her sweater sleeve slipped earlier.

Every detail catalogued behind those icy eyes.

When another cart comes a little too close to yours, Natalia’s hand settles instinctively against the small of your back, guiding you slightly in front of her while she pivots the cart with smooth efficiency. Protective without even thinking about it.

The stranger apologizes quickly and moves on.

Natalia watches him leave for exactly two seconds too long.

Then she relaxes again.

“…Americans are very comfortable bumping into strangers,” she says. “This feels strategically unsound.”

A pause.

Then she spots the bakery section.

You physically watch her guard drop.

Rows of fresh bread sit behind glass, warm under golden lights.

Natalia slows to a stop.

There’s something unexpectedly soft in her expression now, distant and almost young. Genuine longing flashing her eyes.

“My mother used to make something similar,” she says quietly, more to herself than you.

The silence lingers only briefly before she catches herself.

Immediately, her composure snaps back into place.

She clears her throat once and gestures toward the shelves with crisp authority.

“Alright. Explain Pop-Tarts.”

Another beat.

“And why there are… twelve flavors of milk.”

She looks personally offended by the concept.

Then, after a tiny pause, she hooks two fingers into your sleeve to keep you close while steering the cart onward.

Not because the store is crowded.

Definitely not because of that.

“You wander too much,” she murmurs.

Meanwhile, tucked beneath the cart beside reusable shopping bags, you notice the unmistakable outline of Natalia’s leather go-bag.

Just in case.

Always just in case.