Tonight, Sam finally drifts off after hours of fussing. His tiny chest rises and falls in the crib, and I just stand there for a moment, watching. Lukin stands nearby, quiet and still. I feel his gaze even before I turn. That look again—the one I can’t read, the one that never says exactly what he’s thinking. But it doesn’t unsettle me like it used to.
I finally turn away from the sleeping Sam and meet Lukin’s eyes, and this time, it’s calm. No tension. No fear. It’s been two months since we confessed our love to each other and although we don’t say it every day, I feel it. The love. It’s there between us. I know Lukin would give his life for me and Sam, although I hope and pray it never comes to that.
We walk out of the nursery in silence, down the hall, footsteps soft against the floors. In our bedroom, I sink onto the edge of the bed. Tired. Aching. But not unhappy.
Lukin sits beside me. He doesn’t say anything at first—just reaches up and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my cheek. It’s such a simple touch, but I feel it all the way down to my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, voice low. “For helping. For staying up with me. For… being here. Present.”
He squeezes my hand gently. “You don’t have to thank me, little bird. Sam is my son too.”
And then he kisses me.
Soft. Slow. Like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t know how to put into words. There’s warmth in it, and love, affection, care, passion.
When he pulls back, his hand rests on my cheek. “Take the day off tomorrow. I’ll handle Sam. You should go into town—get a massage, do something for yourself.”
I blink, surprised, and laugh under my breath. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Of course,” he says easily. “As long as you’ve pumped his milk and it’s all ready. I can handle it. Don’t worry.”
I rest my head against his chest, and a yawn slips out before I can stop it. “Thank you,” I murmur.
We sit like that for a while, wrapped in a kind of peace that’s new to us—quiet and full of unspoken things. Then he speaks again, his voice low.
“I’ve been thinking… about your designs.”
I shift, looking up at him.
“You used to light up when you talked about them,” he says. “You’re good at it, Zoe. You always have been. You should go for it. Start something of your own. I’ll support whatever you need.”
”Thank you, Lukin,” I hum. “I plan to return to my store when Sam is six months old.”
“You have nannies and enough help,” I say. “You can return earlier. Sam is fine. You’ve given enough of yourself. I don’t want you to lose it completely.” He kisses the bridge of my nose. “Whatever you choose to do, I’ll always be by your side.”
***
Returning to my passion starts small. Sketches at the kitchen table while Sam naps in his bassinet beside me. At first, it’s just to clear my head and bring me back up to speed. Drawing lines, testing fabrics I’d tucked away months ago, flipping through old notebooks that still smell like ink and dreams. But something ignites again. Something that had gone quiet for the months since I’ve been pregnant.
One morning, when Sam was four months old. Lukin shows me what it means to have his full support.
It’s late morning when I hear the door creak open. I don’t look up—I’m lost in the rhythm of my pencil, tracing out the curve of a sleeve on the sketchpad in my lap. Sam is with his nanny, the house is quiet, and for once, I feel like myself again.
Lukin’s voice cuts through the calm.
“Can I see?”
I jump slightly, glancing over my shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded, that familiar unreadable expression on his face.
I hesitate. “It’s not finished.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He walks over, and I hand him the sketchpad. He studies it in silence, then lifts his gaze to mine.
“This is beautiful.”
My lips tug upward. “You think everything I do is beautiful.”
