HOLLY
The waiting room is too quiet. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and every surface gleams with that particular hospital shine that makes everything feel cold and clinical and wrong.
I stare down at my hands. Nikolai's blood has dried under my fingernails and in the creases of my palms.
The door opens, and Dmitri walks in. His arm is in a sling, and he carries his suit jacket draped over his good shoulder. He moves carefully, favoring his injured side, but his face is composed.
He takes the seat beside me.
"How is he?" Dmitri asks, his voice rough.
"Surgery." The word comes out barely above a whisper. "They said it would be a few hours."
I fight the tears that have been threatening to fall since they loaded Nikolai into the ambulance. Since I watched them cut away his blood-soaked shirt and saw how pale he was as they tried to save his life.
I manage to hold them back. Because Nikolai needs me to be strong.
Dmitri nods slowly, his eyes fixed on the wall across from us. "He'll be okay."
I want to believe him. But all I can see is Nikolai falling. All I can hear is the gunshot, and all I can feel is his blood warm and wet on my hands as I pressed against the wound and begged him not to die.
"He's strong," Dmitri continues. "Stronger than anyone I know."
I glance at him. This man who barely speaks. Who moves through the world like a shadow. But right now, sitting here with his arm in a sling and worry etched into the lines around his eyes, he looks almost vulnerable.
"I've never had a brother," Dmitri says quietly. His gaze is still on the wall, but I can tell he's lost somewhere in his memories. "But if I did, it would be Nikolai."
The tears I've been holding back surge forward, and I have to bite my lip to keep them contained.
"That's what he says about you," I whisper.
Dmitri turns to look at me then, and something passes between us. An understanding. A shared fear for the man we both care about.
He places his good hand over mine, careful not to disturb the dried blood.
"What if he dies?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it, small and scared.
Dmitri's mouth curves into the smallest smile. "He's not going anywhere."
"How can you be so sure?"
His eyes hold mine, steady and certain. "Because he just found you."
Before I can respond, the door opens again.
A doctor steps in, still wearing surgical scrubs, a mask pulled down around her neck.
"Mrs. Morozov?" she asks.
I surge to my feet. "Yes. Is he alive?"
"Mr. Morozov made it through surgery," she says, and the relief is so sudden and overwhelming that my knees nearly give out. Dmitri steadies me with his good arm. "The bullet missed all major organs and arteries. He's incredibly lucky. With proper rest and physical therapy, he will make a full recovery."
I press my hand to my mouth, trying to hold in the sob that wants to escape.
"Can I see him?" My voice cracks on the words.
"Of course. Follow me."
