Page 58 of Top Shelf

“You are still you,” he says simply.

His words are so plain they leave me nowhere to hide. I’ve had people make my sexuality feel like a puzzle they’re entitled to solve. I’ve had people treat it like a phase, or a performance, or a detail that could be erased by whoever I loved last.

But Viktor simply tells me I am who I am. That the lamp still works and my mother is wrong. My throat tightens at the thought, which is annoying, because I’ve cried zero times this week and I’d like to keep it that way.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You don’t need to thank me for anything.”

“I know.” My fingers curl against the sheet. “But thank you anyway.”

Light blue eyes search mine, and then, with a nod, he reaches over to switch off his own lamp. I do the same with the Pink Lady, leaving the room in a dark silence. For several minutes, I listen to the apartment and the faint hum of the city, mixed with Viktor’s breathing on the other side of the pillows. I’m aware of him in a way that feels excessive. The size of him and the heat of him. But eventually, sleep drags me under.

When I wake, my face is pressed against warm skin. For a blissful second, my body registers comfort before my brain kicks in.

Sweet mother of god.

My cheek is on Viktor’s chest, my hand is splayed over his stomach, and one of my legs has hooked over his thigh. My body, my whole entire body, is a damn traitor who clearly treats border treaties as mere suggestions.

I slowly open my eyes but don’t move, trying not to induce any more panic in this absolutely fucked-up situation I’ve found myself in. The entire pillow wall is gone, with a defeated pillow left lying at an odd angle between us. But Viktor’s body is still, which means I can gingerly roll off him and pretend this never happened.

However, when I carefully lift my head, I realize one awful, spectacularly catastrophic detail. Viktor is awake. He looks down at me, with his mussed hair and sleepy eyes, entirely too calm for a man currently being climbed horizontally by his legal wife.

“Good morning.”

I launch myself backward so fast I nearly roll off the mattress. “Oh my god.”

His hand catches my wrist before I can go over the edge, then releases me as soon as I’ve regained my balance.

“Your border control is weak.” He nods at the forlorn pillows on the floor.

I clutch the blanket to my chest as though modesty is something I’m familiar with. “Shit, I’m sorry—I should’ve warned you. I move a lot in my sleep.”

“Mm. The pillows surrendered quickly.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“A while.”

“A while?” My voice comes out several notes higher than I would prefer. “Viktor.”

“You looked comfortable,” he says, and his mouth does the almost-smile thing.

I stare at him, then at the demolished pillow barrier.

“Fine,” I say, throwing the blanket back and climbing out of bed with all the dignity I can muster. “Tonight, we’ll reinforce.”

“Sure,” he says, sitting up slowly. “More pillows.”

The sheet slides lower on his hips, but I’m not looking. I am absolutely not looking.

“And maybe some duct tape.”

***

By the following week, the pillow border has failed often enough that rebuilding it feels a lot like lying to myself.

I still line the pillows down the center of the mattress every night and tuck the blankets into my side, promising myself that this is a perfectly reasonable system for two adults who have entered a fake marriage to do. But it’s not the only thing that isn’t helping the situation.