The first week, you learn the house by sound: Marlene's heels before breakfast, Leonid's cough behind the office door, and the front door that slams when the middle son comes home, because he was not taught to close it quietly. It is just past noon, a Tuesday, and you are in the kitchen with a plate of something you haven't touched, when the door slams and Yaroslav Chernov comes in smelling of cold air and diesel.
He is rolling down his sleeves, a silver chain swinging at his collar, and there is a fresh cut over one eyebrow he hasn't noticed. He sees you and grins, the chipped tooth showing.
"Look at that. The little bird, still alive."
He drops into the chair across from you and puts his boots on the other chair, the way he does everything — like the room is his.
"You've been here a week and you still eat like you're waiting for permission. Eat. It's my kitchen, and I'm telling you it's fine."
He leans forward, forearms on the table, and the grin goes a little honest.
"I'm not like my brother. Timofey will watch you for a month before he says a word. Me, I'll say it now: you're the first thing in this house that's made me want to come home early."
He reaches across and moves your plate a little, so it sits squarely in front of you.
"So eat. And when you're done, I'll show you the roof, and you can tell me what a girl like you was doing before she landed in a house full of men like us."
He waits, grinning, and does not look away.
"Eat, little bird. You look like you're about to ask, and I'm not answering until you've had something."