I bite my bottom lip to stop the laugh bubbling up, but it escapes anyway. She looks at me, affronted, as if I’m the messy one. Her chubby hand lands in the bowl of purée and slaps the tray of her highchair with impressive power.
“???,” I scold gently. “No.”
Lunchtime rule number one: Russian only. Vitali insists on it. Our daughter, six months old today, should grow up with both languages.
I try again, more patient.
“?????, ?????????.” Lottie, careful.
She responds by trying to feed the spoon to her own eyebrow.
Well…effort is effort.
Soft footsteps sound behind me, and warmth pools low in my belly before I even turn. Vitali moves into the room like he always does, purposeful and quiet, aware of where every shadow lives. His tie is loosened a little, top button undone. Work-Vitali, but slightly unwound at the edges.
He bends to kiss the top of Lottie’s downy head first, he always greets her first, then his hand finds my hip in a familiar, grounding touch.
“How are my girls?” he asks in Russian, voice rich enough to melt sanity.
I look up, and that stupid flutter beneath my ribs starts again. Six months and the man still has the power to turn my bones into warm honey.
“????? ???… ?????… ????????????,” I manage. Lottie is eating… very… messily.
He huffs a soft laugh. “??? — ???????.” She is a Dubovicha. As though that excuses chaos.
He removes his suit jacket and rolls his sleeves to the elbow, like he’s about to perform delicate surgery rather than spoon-feed vegetables. And somehow, this, this domestic, quiet moment, is more devastatingly attractive than any of the times he’s pinned me to a door and made me forget my own name.
“? ??????.” His mouth finds my cheek. I missed you.
He was only gone a few hours. But those hours stretch now, like time refuses to behave when he’s not near. I swallow, because something inside me has grown too big to contain.
“I was with Sophia this morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and stay within the rules. “?? ?????? ? ????.” We walked in the garden.
“And the little one?” he asks, gaze dropping automatically to my hands… my belly…
He doesn’t know.
Not yet.
My pulse stumbles. I look at Lottie again, her soft cheeks, her little fist gripping the spoon like it’s treasure, and emotion swells so suddenly behind my ribs I almost gasp with it.
He has given me everything. A home. A place to belong. A family. Himself.
This love, ridiculous and gigantic, doesn’t fit in the space a contract once carved.
He wipes a bit of orange mush from Lottie’s chin with his thumb, then lifts it to his own lips, licking it off without thinking. A gesture too sensual for vegetables.
“Delicious,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine.
I can’t wait anymore.
My breath trembles out.
“??????…” Vitali…
His body stills. The air thickens.
“Yes?” He says it careful, like he can already feel a shift.
