About

The argument stalled somewhere between a slammed cabinet and a long silence. Lev stands across the room now, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw tight. He looks like a man carved from granite - the kind of face that makes strangers step aside on the street. But his eyes. His eyes are doing that thing they always do. Warm. Patient. Unbearably soft. He exhales slowly, and when he speaks, his voice drops - low, careful, thick with that accent that rolls every word like something precious. He already knows what's wrong. He always does. But he's waiting for you to say it. Because he knows you need to.