"You can finally move," I correct. "Doctor said light activity. Don't push it."
"I won't." She steps into the studio, still wearing Elena's dress. "But I need to move. To celebrate being alive, being married, being able to use my body again after two weeks of forced stillness."
She walks to the center of the room, positions herself in front of the mirrors.
And begins to dance.
It's not the aggressive, tactical dancing from the safe house. Not the performance choreography from Lincoln Center. This is something else—joy made movement, gratitude expressed through her body after being still for so long.
She moves carefully, respecting the healing ankle and the early pregnancy. But she moves. Turns, extensions, port de bras that make the silk dress flow around her like water.
At seven weeks pregnant, there's the tiniest bump visible when the dress pulls tight against her stomach. Barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. But I'm looking.
I watch from the doorway, mesmerized.
She's dancing in my dead wife's dress while carrying my living child. Past and present and future all moving together in candlelight and mirrors.
After ten minutes, she stops, breathing slightly harder. Turns to face me.
"Come here," she says.
I cross the studio to her.
"Undress me," she whispers. "Slowly. While I move."
I start with the buttons at her wrists—tiny pearl buttons that take patience to undo. She sways gently while I work, not quite dancing but not still either.
The sleeves slide off her shoulders. I move to the buttons down her back—dozens of them, requiring focus and care. She turns slowly, making me work for it, her movements graceful and deliberate.
The dress loosens, pools at her waist. She's wearing simple white undergarments beneath—practical, not seductive, but on her body, everything is seduction.
I slide the dress down over her hips. It falls to the floor in a puddle of silk and lace and sixteen years of history.
She steps out of it wearing only a bra, panties, and the faint swell of early pregnancy.
"Take off the rest," I say, voice rough.
She does. Unhooks the bra, slides down the panties, stands naked in the studio mirrors at this hour, my wife of ninety minutes.
"I want you," she says simply.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
"Maksim—"
"Let me worship you." I press my lips to her stomach, just above where our child is growing. "Pregnant. Healed. Mine. Let me show you what that means to me."
I trace my tongue across the tiny bump, feeling the subtle change in her body. Seven weeks. Still so early. Still so fragile. But alive and growing.
My hands slide up her thighs, spreading her legs slightly. She braces against my shoulders, understanding what I'm about to do.
I taste her standing—long, slow strokes of my tongue that make her gasp and grip my hair. I work her carefully, thoroughly, building the pleasure gradually while she stands above me trembling.
"Maksim—I can't—standing like this—"
"You can. Hold onto me. Let go."
She does. Comes against my mouth with a cry that echoes in the empty studio, her body shaking, her hands fisted in my hair to stay upright.
