“stay with me tonight” + doep nyc dimya
2016ish? i dont know what time is
It’s late when they leave the bar, Dmitry walks the extra space to Anya’s apartment building, seeing her home safely. They stumble up the stairs, trying to keep their laughter at a quiet level.
When they reach her door, Dmitry ducks down to kiss her, only to remember a delayed moment later they don’t do that. Or aren’t supposed to. Or aren’t yet. He’s not certain what the rules are here in this new city. He maneuvers and ends up kissing the tip of her nose instead.
“Good night,” he says.
She tilts her head up and it’s a series of past moments all in one space. He thinks of all their near kisses from a lifetime before. And all the repeating and rhyming history they have. And how he’d live a hundred lifetimes of repeating the cycle of falling in love with this woman and be content.
Anya tugs on his sleeve, “Stay with me tonight?”
They were tipsy and hazy and it’s hard to keep barriers up in these states.
“Don’t think it’s a good idea,” because Dmitry is trying hard these days to not give into bad ones.
It’s like a series of tests they’ve been putting themselves through before allowing the unnamed inevitable to take over.
“You’ve spent the night before,” she reminds him. “I don’t like waking up hungover in a strange city.”
“You’ve lived here for a month,” he reminds her but makes no move to leave. “Shouldn’t be so strange anymore.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “I just need to wake up to the smell of lemon herb salmon toast and can’t wait the time it would take to drag myself over to your apartment.”
Dmitry laughs, “Do you even have the ingredients for such a thing here?”
She nods, playing with the edge of his father’s coat. “Bought them all myself.”
“I see,” he says, taking the keys from her hand to open her door. “This was premeditated.”
“Knew we’d get drunk together sooner or later,” she says, holding onto the back of his coat to follow him into her apartment. “Wanted to be prepared.”
Dmitry shrugs off his coat as she pushes off her heels. It’s an updated version of an old routine of theirs from back when they were married.
Some habits were unbreakable when they were together.
He drops down onto her couch. Dedicated to sticking to their lines in any way he could.
Anya looks ready to say something but instead yawns, and drops a kiss on his forehead.
“Night Dima.”
“Night Anyok,” he returns, squeezing her hand before she slips away.
Dmitry awakes to find her tucked between the back of the sofa and him, her face hidden against his chest, his hand already in her hair.
He slides off the sofa, trying not to disturb her as he gets up. He pads out to the kitchen and opens the fridge to find a drawer labeled with his name on it.
He smiles as he takes out the supplies she left him.
