Page 125 of Playing Her Game

I kiss him again, and he laughs against my mouth.

Later, when we return inside, his aunt looks up from her book and takes in our flushed faces, damp coats, and the snow clinging to Rez's hair.

"I see you've been keeping busy."

"He's a menace,” I tell her.

"I know, darling. I've known him a long time."

Rez walks past us, shaking his head.

I laugh so hard I have to sit down.

The ordinary days become my favorite part of the visit. There is no elaborate itinerary. We eat breakfast together, walk the dogs when the weather allows, and spend evenings by the fire while his aunt reads or works at the dining table. Sometimes Rez takes calls or deals with hockey business, and I sit beside him with my phone, looking over contracts. Neither of my parents has called me, but I still have dozens of emails each day to sort through and make decisions for an estate they just days ago were going to cut me out of.

Larysa and I exchange numbers before we leave, with tentative plans to attend a garden event together.

Two days before Rez is due to leave, I am straightening up when I find some paperwork, tucked under some magazines. It’s a contract, and when I open it, I see it’s a property transfer. Then I see the name on the ownership documents. Mine.

I stop. I read it again.

Then I go back to the beginning and start over, slower this time, checking every page as carefully as I would if I were reviewing a contract for my own family.

The house is in my name.

I hear footsteps in the hallway. "Daniil Reznik?"

He appears in the doorway, his expression shifting when he sees the papers in my hands.

"What is this?"

He looks at the documents. "The house."

"I can see that." I lift the contract slightly.

He clears his throat. "It's your house, Anna."

The words don't make sense at first.

“Why?”

He takes the folder from my hands and sets it on the desk, careful not to disturb the documents.

"Because I never want you to feel like you have to stay somewhere you aren't treated with respect." His voice is steady, but something in his expression has changed. Something less guarded. "Or kindness, or love."

He pauses, holding my gaze as he leans against the desk and takes my hands in his. "Yes, love, Anna." My throat tightens. "I want you to have somewhere that's yours. Somewhere you can go because you want to be there. Somewhere nobody gets to use a roof over your head to tell you how to live or who you're allowed to love."

I look back at the paperwork, my name sits there in black and white, undeniable. "You bought me a house."

"I made sure you have a home."

"That's not the same thing?"

"No." He steps closer. "It's not."

I shake my head, trying to absorb what he's done.

I know what property costs. I know the obligations that come with ownership, the contracts, the responsibilities. I know this isn't an impulsive gift he can take back when he's angry or disappointed. He's put something real in my hands. Something that gives me a choice.