"You are, Mitya," she says softly, but with a hint of something else in it. Not warning, not exactly, because she won't be the one to hurt him if this all goes wrong. Not herself, at least, not directly. She knows what she's suddenly not so sure he does, though: that this part is just as important if they want to really get anywhere, if they want to have a chance at doing absolutely anything other than fleeing like scared animals and hiding in a corner. Their story is also their only ticket to any kind of life beyond tomorrow. They have to sell it.

With that in mind, she stays close, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, closing her eyes as she breathes in the scent of him. It's not unpleasant. Nothing about him is unpleasant. Easier to sell herself on him than on Vasili, who had been an old man; than on Stan, who had killed her friend for nothing.

"And do you love me?" she asks quietly, pulling back enough to look at his face. Convince me, her eyes say.