The shades are drawn and the room is dim, but I can still see the rumpled, king-sized bed where Mikhail slept last night. Fully against my will, I breathe in the mint and cedar scent of him. It’s stronger here than anywhere else in the house.
“Dante…?” I whisper as if Mikhail is going to lunge at me from behind a door.
“I’m in here,” a little voice says tearily.
I turn towards the closet. The door is cracked open and I see a small, socked foot poking out of the shadows beyond.
Getting to my knees in my pencil skirt is an ordeal-and-a-half, but I manage it and crawl into the closet with him. Thankfully, Mikhail’s closet could fit our previous apartment two times over. Claustrophobia won’t be an issue.
“What are you doing in here, bud?” I ask softly. “Are you okay?”
Dante swipes a paja
