It's hard to pinpoint what exactly wakes me - the noise from the yard, the morning sun flooding the room, or the gaze.

I'm inclined to believe it's the gaze. The sun shines through my windows every morning and the workers come every day, except weekends. But this is the first time I've encountered such a look.

The gleaming Gromov poster on the wall stares differently. To catch its gaze, you have to stand in a specific way in front of it. But now, it's the real, living Mark looking at me, and his gaze makes the fine hairs on my body stand on end.

He's not just looking; he's appraising me. Resting his head on his hand, he doesn't even blink. I've blinked several times, trying to understand why I'm lying in such an odd position, what nightmare I had yesterday. And then I remember, it wasn't a dream.

We gaze at each other in silence for a while. Mark with interest, and I, dazed. Because I'm lying with my head against his shoulder and my arms wrapped around his broad torso.

It's a mystery how I ended up in this position. It's comfortable, generally speaking, but utterly unacceptable for me. And it's further complicated by the fact that my leg is draped over Mark.

My leg now rests on his. Clearly on the healthy one, for if it were on the injured one, he wouldn't be lying so calmly. And he wouldn't look at me with such interest.

But that's just half the problem. The real issue is that something resembling a knee is pressing into my stomach. Hard, but definitely not a knee. Gromov only has two legs, hence two knees.

Has anyone ever seen a man with two legs and three knees? I certainly haven't.

And the real disaster is Mark's hand on my leg. Not just resting, but sliding. Up and down, up and down. It feels like synchronized, organized ant parades running over my skin. Back and forth, back and forth...

What was I thinking, sleeping in a bed with Gromov? Why didn't I set an alarm on my phone to wake up earlier? Or at least change out of what I was wearing, those short silk pants and a cropped top...

Mark presses me reflexively with his "conditional knee", and I realize I need to extricate myself from this situation somehow. The most sensible thing would be to act naturally, pretend nothing happened. Just smile, greet him, ask how he's feeling, what he wants for breakfast. Then gracefully remove my leg and get out of the bed.

But my smile is pathetic, and instead of "Good morning," an unintelligible gurgle escapes my throat. So, I remain silent.

"Karo! Karina! Lady, where are you?" a loud shout comes from the street, and I spring from the bed like a triggered spring.

"Hello, Mark, sorry, I fell asleep without realizing it," I mutter suddenly finding my voice, and I rush out of the room, trying not to look at his scrunched face. Well, and not at anything else but his face.

"Yannis, why are you yelling?" I run out to the porch to see the strained faces of my employees.

I see myself through their eyes – a sleepy creature with tousled hair, in indecently short pants and a top. But I have to salvage the situation somehow, so I quickly gather my unruly hair, twist it into a bun. And I speak very seriously, holding the bun with one hand.

"Close your mouth, Menelaus, I overslept, I overslept. Hasn't it happened to everyone?"

It had never happened to me. I'm an early bird, always up with the dawn, and in all the time the guys have been working with us, they had never seen me asleep or half-dressed. That's why they respectfully call me "lady," even though they're at least ten years older than me. And that's been since I was seventeen, when I graduated from school; before that, I was the young mistress.

Menelaus blinks, Yannis elbows his colleague in the side. "I told you I was at home. And you kept saying 'he's disappeared, he's disappeared...'"

"Why did you think I had disappeared?" I ask, surprised, still holding the tourniquet, almost falling off the porch when I see a police car entering the yard.

"The police were looking for you," Yannis' voice is drowned out by my frantic scream.

"Tell them I'll change and come out now!"

I rush to my room, my heart ready to leap out of my chest.

"Mark, get up quickly and go down to the garage," I hurry to the boy, and he grabs my hands.

"Calm down, Karo, tell me who? Them again?"

"No, not them," I throw him one of dad's t-shirts, pull a summer dress out of the closet, and start dressing in 'marine infantry' mode. "It's the police."

Yes, in Gromov's sight, but what can I do when there's no time for room-hopping. Well, it doesn't matter that he swallows loudly and starts to breathe more frequently. And his voice becomes hoarse. He used to have that too.

I grab the brush and frantically comb my disheveled hair. It's Gromov's fault. It's against him that I rubbed my head; if I had slept peacefully on a pillow, they wouldn't be so tangled.

The rebellious hair refuses to yield, so I pull harder with the brush. Now I'll rip them out and go bald.

"Easy..." a broad hand lands on mine and takes the comb from me, "don't get upset, little one. I'll help you. Such beautiful hair..."

He begins to carefully separate the strands and comb them, and I look in the mirror to see a broad-shouldered boy in boxer shorts behind me. What I see is fine, but what I feel too well with my backside makes my heart bounce around the chest like a tennis ball.

Suddenly, Mark leans in and buries his nose in my hair, and all I can do is stay still and not move.

His breath burns my neck, his movements become more rigid, his body tense, and I, in this context, seem like a signal lamp that will light up as soon as the electric circuit is closed.

Fortunately, Gromov realizes this is neither the time nor the place.

"I might not hide," Mark's voice sounds dry, and I feel the urge to swallow and lick my dry lips. My mouth is dry too. "It's the police, they'll probably ask about when we stopped for gas. Tell them things as they were. Without a search warrant, they won't inspect the house. I don't think they have one, so I'll be waiting here for you. And you, take them to the terrace, offer them coffee or something refreshing. Talk there."

"It's better if you wait in my parents' room," I gesture to the room. For a short while, I'm embarrassed that there's no fancy interior design. But only for a short time. "There's a hatch under the rug that leads to the basement. It'll be hard for you to go down with your injured foot, that's why I took you down in the elevator. If you hear any suspicious noise, go down to the basement. And don't jump, it's high."

"Okay," he pulls me by the head and kisses my forehead.

My legs instantly turn into cotton candy, and I head towards the police with cotton legs that buckle.