I push into the bedroom. The lights are low, the sheets pulled back. No sign of Sima anywhere.
For a second, my stomach drops all the way to the floor. Every bad thought I’ve ever had about her running, someone getting to her—it all rushes in at once.
Then I hear it. A sound from the bathroom. Harsh, raw, echoing against tile.
She’s in there. She’s throwing up.
Relief cuts in, but it’s short-lived. One fear replaced with another.
It doesn’t make sense for Sima to get sick this late in the pregnancy. Morning sickness doesn’t last the whole nine months. And it’s nowhere near morning anyway.
I cross the room fast, shove the door with my knuckles.
Locked.
“Sima?” I knock. The sound comes softer than I expected. “Is everything alright?”
More gagging. Water splashing. The toilet flushes. A long pause, then a groan.
Her voice is weak, rough at the edges. “Um. N-Not really.”
I press my forehead against the door. For a second, I just listen. She’s breathing unevenly, her movements jerky as she drags herself from one corner of the bathroom to another. She’s probably bracing herself against the counter.
Fuck, she sounds miserable. All that heat I carried from the car, the hunger, it’s gone in an instant. Replaced with a knot in my gut I don’t like.
“Open the door,” I tell her.
No answer.
“Sima.” My tone turns commanding. “Let me see you.”
Again—silence.
I curl my hand into a fist against the wood and fight the urge to smash the lock. She’s in there, sick as hell, and I’m standing outside like an idiot. I don’t like it. Not one fucking bit.
Then, suddenly, I hear the lock unlatching.
I push the door open and find her on the floor. “Sima.”
She’s curled up in a ball against the wall, arms wrapped tight around her middle. Her skin is pale, damp with sweat. Strands of hair stick to her forehead. Her breathing is shallow and uneven.
My stomach turns cold. This isn’t what I expected. Not her like this.
I drop to a crouch next to her, press my hand to her face. She’s burning hot. Fever-hot. I feel it instantly against my palm.
“What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
She groans, a low sound, and doesn’t lift her head. Her arms stay locked around her belly like she’s holding herself together, trying to keep something from tearing loose.
I hate seeing her like this. I’m supposed to be the one who fixes things, who keeps her safe, and here she is on the goddamn floor while I stand there useless.
“Is it the baby?”
Sima’s eyes are glassy. Like she’s only half-here.
I shake her shoulder. Not hard, just enough to make her look at me. “Sima, tell me. Is something wrong with the baby?”
She groans again and turns her face away. Sweat beads along her temple. She doesn’t answer me, just keeps making pained sounds like it’s all she can bring herself to do.
