A few minutes later, my gaze lifts. I blink to find Viktor standing in the doorway.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me. His body is tight and tense, like he’s bracing for an explosion.
“I… That was the vet. It’s Queenie’s heart. They’re doing everything they can right now to help her. But the vet said it’s bad. They have her on medicine right now and said a specialist might be able to help, but he’s in New York. They’re going to check to see if he has any availability but said not to get our hopes up because he’s very busy…”
There’s a small flicker in his eyes, a ripple beneath the surface I’ve gotten pretty good at catching.
Sofia walks in behind him, her hair down and ready to be put into pigtails. She looks at us, and somehow, I think she knows.
“Did something bad happen?” she asks.
I blink, chewing my lip. “That was the vet.”
“Is Queenie okay?” Her voice is softer now, hopeful but cracked.
I wave her over to me and sit her down beside me on the bed so I can do her hair. I try to explain everything the best I can. Mindlessly, I brush her hair, trying to find the right words that won’t hurt her too much. But there really aren’t any.
“She’s still sick, baby,” I say gently. “Really sick. They’re going to keep her for a few more days.”
Sofia’s body crumples, and I don’t need the mirror to know her face has too.
She bolts from the bed, one pigtail half done, and straight into Viktor.
He doesn’t even hesitate this time to catch her, lifting her up into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hugs her tight. The kind of hug I give to calm and regulate her. Almost like he needs it too.
And she sobs, tiny fists curling into his dark shirt.
Neither of them says anything. Viktor just holds her tighter.
And my heart aches just watching them.
He brings her to the armchair by the dresser, cradling her softly in his lap. One hand strokes her back, and the other rests on her head. His eyes are far away, like he’s somewhere deep inside his mind. It’s hurting him deeply too. He’s just better at disguising it than Sofia is.He doesn’t have to say it, not that he will. But I can see it. The stillness in his body. It breaks my heart.
After Sofia has calmed in Viktor’s lap, he gently lays her on the bed, covering her with her weighted blanket and brushing the hair from her forehead.
We leave Sofia to rest for a little while, and we go downstairs to the den. There, Viktor paces like a wild cat in a cage.
“Did they give you the name of the specialist?” he asks, pulling out his phone. “Where is he in New York? How fast can he get here?”
“Viktor—”
“I’ll get him on the next flight. Whatever we need to do.”
His voice is clipped. Focused. Razor sharp and to the point.
But I watch his hands tremble as he speaks. And I can see he’s starting to spiral into anxiety and panic—I can recognize the signs now.
I step closer, gently resting a hand on his arm. “Breathe. She’s in good hands right now.”
He turns to me, eyes burning. “Sofia needs her. I can’t sit here and do nothing. Not while Sofia is breaking apart into tiny pieces.”
My throat tightens. This is how he loves. He moves mountains. He shows you instead of using words. His love is not loud or obvious in the normal way. His love is quiet and attentive—but it’s definitely fierce and protective.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s see what we can do.”
“What do you mean you can’t help my cat?” Viktor barks down the speakerphone at Dr. Rivers, the New York specialist, an hour later.
“I’m very sorry, but I’m on vacation in Costa Rica right now. But my receptionist can give you my next available slot,” Dr. Rivers replies.
