Padding quietly across the cool floor, I make my way to the en suite. The tiles are cold beneath my feet, the world beyond the frosted window a blur of dawn.
I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, eyes closed, breathing through the wave until it passes. It always does, eventually, but each morning it feels like a small battle won.
I wash my face, the cold water chasing the last fog of sleep from my mind. There’s something grounding about these rituals—the familiar aches, the quiet victory of keeping down a glass of water.
After a few minutes, the worst of the sickness fades and I step into the shower, letting the heat loosen muscles still sore from last night’s intimacy. My mind drifts as I stand under the spray, thinking about Simon’s hands, his words, the way his love settles around me like a shield.
By the time I’m dressed in a soft cotton dress, hair towel-dried and skin flushed pink, the nausea is a distant memory. I return to the bedroom, sunlight now spilling gold across the covers.
Simon is awake, propped up on one elbow, hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks so different in this light—softer, younger, almost boyish if not for the scars at his brow and jaw. When he sees me, a slow grin curves his lips.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sharov.” His voice is a low rumble, sleep-warm and teasing.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t hide my smile. “That’s never going to get old for you, is it?”
He reaches out, snagging my wrist, pulling me back into the nest of sheets. “Not in this lifetime.” He presses a kiss to my palm, then my knuckles, before letting me settle beside him. “How are you feeling?”
“Alive,” I answer, nestling into his side. “A little queasy, but better now.”
He studies me, concern flickering behind his sleepy gaze. “Did you eat anything yet?”
I shake my head, and he frowns, brushing my hair off my forehead. “You need to eat.” The worry in his voice is so earnest it makes me laugh.
“I will, Simon. I promise. I just wanted to see you first.”
He softens, drawing me closer, tucking me under his chin. “You always come first,” he murmurs. “Always.”
We stay like that, a perfect hush wrapping around us. He runs his palm over my stomach, gentle and reverent. “Did our little one make you sick again?”
I sigh. “Every morning, like clockwork. I think they know how to make an entrance.”
He grins, turning to press a kiss to my belly, his stubble scratching softly. “They get that from you. The drama.”
I swat at his shoulder, but I’m laughing, warmth blooming everywhere his hands touch. “As if you’re not the king of drama, Simon Sharov.”
He pretends to be wounded, clutching at his heart. “I’ll have you know, I am known for my subtlety and restraint.”
I snort, nudging him. “Sure you are. Is that why half the city trembles when you call?”
He pulls me over, rolling us gently until I’m half on top of him, hair spilling around our faces.
“They tremble because they haven’t seen you in the morning,” he teases, tracing a finger down my nose. “You’re far scarier than me before coffee.”
I try to glare, but his grin is too infectious. I settle against him, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on his chest.
“You know,” he says, softer now, “I never thought I’d wake up like this. With you. With family.” His voice is thick with emotion, raw honesty. “I’m grateful, every damn day.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, letting my fingertips linger on his jaw. “Me too. Even when I’m running for the bathroom at sunrise.”
He laughs, the sound low and bright, then sobers. “Let me make you breakfast. Something that won’t upset your stomach.” He starts to get up, but I pull him back down.
“Stay a minute,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his. “Just hold me.”
He wraps his arms around me, all strength and gentleness, and I breathe in the scent of his skin, let the steady beat of his heart settle my own. I realize—again, in the simple peace of this moment—that this is all I’ve ever wanted. Not just love, but safety. Not just passion, but partnership.
We lie there, tangled and content, until the world outside calls us to start the day. But for now, in the gentle hush of morning, with Simon’s arms around me and sunlight catching in his eyes, everything feels possible.
Every fear is small. Every hope is brighter.
