I shoot Aleksander a look. “So, impossible.”
“Keep the wound clean. No lifting for a while. No stress,” the doctor says.
Aleksander snorts quietly, and even the doctor glances up with the ghost of a smile. “You’ll need antibiotics and rest. If you notice fever or new pain, call me. And stay out of trouble, if that’s possible.”
“Not likely,” Aleksander mutters, grimacing as the doctor tightens the bandage.
The doctor barely cracks a smile, finishing his work with quick efficiency. He checks the bandages one more time, gives a few firm instructions to Nikolai, and gathers up his kit. I hear the front door open and close quietly as he slips out, but I don’t take my eyes off Aleksander.
When it’s finally just us, I let out a breath I’ve been holding for hours. I kneel in front of him, studying his face, searching for signs of pain.
“Are you dizzy? Do you feel cold?” I ask, my voice gentle but urgent. “Do you think you need to go to the hospital after all?”
He shakes his head, giving me a look both stubborn and soft. “I’ll live.”
“That’s not an answer,” I whisper. “I can’t do this if you—if you die on me.”
He lets out a shaky laugh and squeezes my hand, eyes tired but bright. “I’m not planning on it.”
For the first time all night, I start to believe him. I rest my head against his knee, letting myself breathe, just for a moment, while he threads his fingers carefully through my hair.
I help him up slowly, keeping my hand on his good side so I don’t jostle the bandage. He tries to act like he’s fine, like this is nothing, but his face is paler than before and his movements are careful in a way that gives him away.
“Bedroom,” I say, more statement than question.
He nods once.
The apartment feels too big in the quiet, too expensive for the kind of night we just had. Nikolai stays in the living room, a solid shadow near the couch where Lily is sleeping. He doesn’t speak, but I feel his attention on us, making sure Aleksander doesn’t collapse.
I guide Aleksander down the hall. He keeps his jaw set, breathing through his nose like he can control pain by refusing to acknowledge it. At the bedroom door he pauses, blinking like the light is too bright.
“Sit,” I tell him.
He gives me a look that says he’s not used to being told anything.
Then he sits anyway.
I pull the covers back and help him lie down, careful with his shoulder, careful with the bandage. He exhales the moment his back hits the mattress, as if his body has been holding itself together out of stubbornness alone.
“There,” I murmur, smoothing the sheet near his waist.
He turns his head slightly to look at me. “You’re still here.”
“I don’t know why,” I admit, and the honesty surprises me as it leaves my mouth. “You almost got us killed twice in one day.”
A faint smile pulls at his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And yet you’re tucking me in.”
“I am not tucking you in,” I say, defensive, even though I basically am.
He lets out a soft breath that could be a laugh if it didn’t hurt. “Bella.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight in my lap so I don’t start shaking again. “How bad is it,” I ask. “Really.”
He looks at the ceiling for a second. “It hurts.”
“Helpful,” I mutter.
His gaze returns to me. “It went through. I’ve had worse.”
