SIMA
The next week is quiet. Not peaceful, but… close.
The tension in the house hasn’t gone anywhere. There’s no shouting, though. No slammed doors. Definitely no gunfire. These days, I’ll take what I can get.
Things with Petyr have been better. He doesn’t lock me in my room anymore, which feels like a win, however small. I don’t know if it’s trust or exhaustion, but I’ll call it progress.
He still insists that one of his men tags along whenever I leave the house, though. Nothing says romance like being followed to a prenatal appointment by a parade of Viktor Krum’s scarier cousins with semi-automatics under their jackets.
But after last week’s scare, I can’t even bring myself to fight him on it. I get it. When I thought he was dead, my first instinct was to beg him to never leave the house again. Not very Simone de Beauvoir of me, but then again, I’ve been failing that subject for a while now.
Maybe I’ll take a gender studies class once I’m back in school.Women in Business,or something along those lines, to stay on track with my subject. That should put some self-respect back into my body.
Still, I can’t deny how much lighter it feels between us. Petyr is softer, calmer. When he comes home, he looks for me first. Sometimes, he even smiles.
I don’t ask what he’s thinking when he does, but part of me wants to. I want to understand what’s going on in that mind of his, what he’s planning, what he’s afraid of. I want to know him in ways I didn’t before.
Because it’s clear that’s what caused our rift. We didn’t know each other well enough to tell what was really going on. If I’d known how prone he was to speaking out of anger, or if he’d known how easily spooked I could be… Maybe we never would have broken apart in the first place.
But we did. And now, we’re learning how to put the pieces back together.
The pregnancy’s taking most of my energy, though. Between the nausea and the fatigue, my biggest accomplishment most days is sitting upright long enough to eat.
Anya still brings my meals without a word, and honestly, I prefer it that way. We understand each other better in silence. Though I do occasionally ask her how the rose bushes are doing without their human fertilizer.
As for Kira, I haven’t seen her in days, and I’m not losing sleep over it. The house is easier to breathe in without her perfume clouding every corner. Her absence feels like opening a windowafter a storm. A breath of fresh air to chase away the stuffy smell of moth-eaten antiques.
Petyr’s been busy, too. Meetings, calls, late nights—all the usual shebang.
But when he’s home, he touches my shoulder when he passes, or kisses my forehead before leaving. It’s small, but it feels real. Like he’s making sure I’m still here. Still his.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t mind being someone’shis.
Another bright spot is the nursery. I pick colors and fabric swatches and send Petyr pictures from the couch. He orders the paint, the crib, the dresser, and a chair that actually reclines without sounding like a dying animal. I approve bows and trim and the tiny clothes that make me go squee with glee when I fold them.
Today is paint day. The walls are a soft cream. The trim is white. Petyr lays tape while I sit on the floor on a sheet, paint tray balanced on a towel, and roll the color on in giddy strokes.
“Careful,” he says from the ladder.
“You be careful. I can paint and breathe at the same time without injuring myself. Look at me, a woman of many talents.”
He glances down at me, lips half-curved in a smirk. “It helps that you’re supervised.”
“Is that what this is? Supervision?” I dip the roller again. “I thought it was quality time.”
“Both,” he says. “I’m effective that way. You’re not the only one with many talents, Mrs. Gubarev.”
Mrs. Gubarev.It feels so odd, the way it rolls off the tongue. Sima Gubarev.
For once, I don’t mind my new name at all.
“Is impulse shopping considered a talent?” I nod toward the white noise machine in the corner. “Or are you going to pretend you didn’t order that at three in the morning?”
He keeps his attention on the tape and shrugs. “It was on sale.”
I shift closer to the next section of wall. I’ve missed our banter. The way I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “You want to talk about whatwasn’ton sale? The pile of stuffed animals on the chair.”
He looks over, unimpressed by the fact that the reclining chair it took us two hours to build is now buried in plush. And fluff. And whatever it is they stuff toys with.
