"It's what we do," he said. "He'll be moved to the VIP ward soon. You can see him, though he's still under anesthesia—might be a few hours before he wakes up."
Thirty minutes later, Alexander was transferred to a VIP ward on the top floor. It was a suite with a separate living room, bedroom, and bathroom—more like a hotel than a hospital room.
But I wasn't paying attention to any of that. My eyes were only for him lying in that bed.
He was still sleeping, his face pale but his breathing much steadier. His left shoulder was wrapped in thick bandages, IV tubes connected to his arm. The heart monitor beeped steadily beside him with a soft rhythm.
I sat beside the bed and gently took his hand. That hand that had once been ice-cold was warming up again.
"He's going to be fine," Yekaterina said softly. "You should rest too, changeclothes..."
She looked at my blood-stained clothing with pity in her eyes.
"I'm not tired," I shook my head. "I want to stay with him. Katya, please go back and look after Sofia. When she wakes up... don't tell her what happened yet. I don't want to scare her."
"I understand," Yekaterina nodded. "I'll head back then. Call if you need anything."
After she left, the room held only me and sleeping Alexander.
I gently traced his colorless face—forehead, brows, nose, lips, chin—carefully mapping every contour. As if I wanted to carve his image deep into my soul.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "This is all my fault. If I'd trusted you, if I hadn't left... you wouldn't be hurt."
Tears fell on his face and I quickly wiped them away.
"When you took that bullet for me," I continued, voice breaking, "that's when I understood how much I love you. The possibility of losing you was ten thousand times more terrifying than any misunderstanding, any past."
I leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. "I love you, Alexander Volkov. I'll stay with you always, never leave again."
Time passed minute by minute. I sat by his bed, holding his hand, watching his sleeping face. Nurses checked on him periodically, but I never left.
Around three in the afternoon, his fingers suddenly moved.
I snapped my head up, staring at his face. His eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened.
Those deep eyes were still somewhat confused, but when they focused on me, they immediately cleared.
"Anna..." His voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm here, I'm right here." I gripped his hand tightly, tears flowing again. "You're finally awake."
He weakly lifted his other hand, trying to touch my face, but stopped halfway as pain made him wince.
"Don't move," I quickly pressed his hand down. "You're badly hurt, you can't move around."
He looked at me, his eyes full of complex emotions—love, guilt, tenderness.
"Sorry..." he struggled to speak, each word requiring a pause. "Anna..."
"No," I shook my head, tears rolling. "I'm the one who should apologize. I didn't trust you, I misunderstood you, I left you... If not for me, you wouldn't be hurt."
"Not your fault," he said. "I didn't... make you feel secure..."
"Enough," I cried. "No more apologies. We both made mistakes, but none of that matters now. What matters is you're alive, we're together."
I leaned down and kissed his lips gently. "I love you. I truly, truly love you. I'll never leave again, never doubt you again."
"I love you too," he responded, tears glistening in his eyes. "Always have... only you..."
