"Tell me if anything hurts," he says again.
"I will."
He kisses me, slow and deep, pouring everything he feels into it. His good hand trails down my body, mapping every curve, every dip, every place that makes me gasp. He's careful, avoiding the bruises, the tender spots.
When his fingers slip into me, I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips. He works me slowly, building the pleasure with patient, deliberate movements. His thumb circles my clit while his fingers thrust inside me, and I feel myself climbing higher.
"That's it," he murmurs against my skin, his lips trailing down my neck. "Let go for me,dorogoy. I've got you."
The orgasm crashes over me in waves, and I cry out, my hands fisting in the sheets. He works me through it, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until I'm boneless and gasping beneath him.
When I finally come back down, he's watching me with such tenderness it makes my chest ache.
"I love you," I whisper.
"I love you too." He positions himself at my entrance, his eyes never leaving mine as he pushes inside slowly, carefully, giving me time to adjust. The stretch is perfect, filling me completely, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He moves with slow, deliberate thrusts, his good hand braced beside my head, his injured hand resting carefully on the bed. "More," I breathe, my hands sliding up his back. "Kazimir, please?—"
He picks up the pace slightly, his hips snapping against mine with more force. The pleasure builds again, coiling tight in my belly, and I feel myself climbing toward another peak.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice rough. "I want to feel you come around me."
I slide my hand between us, my fingers finding my clit. The added stimulation sends me spiraling, and within seconds I'm coming again, my body clenching around him as I cry out his name.
He follows me over the edge, his body going rigid as he spills inside me. His good arm trembles with the effort of holding himself up, and then he carefully rolls to the side, pulling me with him so we're lying face to face.
We stay like that for a long time. His hand rests on my stomach, and I cover it with mine.
"We're going to be okay," I say softly. "All three of us."
"I know." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "I'm going to make sure of it."
And lying there in his arms, in our home, with our baby growing between us, I believe him.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I believe in the future.
I believe in us.
EPILOGUE: SVETLANA
The apartment is quiet when we walk through the door, a peaceful silence that only comes in the early morning hours. Kazimir carries the car seat carefully. Inside, our daughter sleeps, her tiny face peaceful, her impossibly small hands curled into fists.
Anya. Our Anya.
I follow behind, exhausted but unable to stop staring at her. Three days old, and already she's become our whole world. The way Kazimir looks at her—like she's made of spun glass—makes my chest ache in a good way. A way I’ve never felt before.
He sets the car seat down gently on the coffee table, then straightens, his hand going to his lower back. The missing finger on his right hand is still jarring sometimes, a reminder of everything we've been through. But he doesn't seem to notice it anymore. Or if he does, he doesn't care.
"I'll make tea," he says, already moving toward the kitchen. "You should sit. Rest."
"I'm fine." But I sink onto the couch anyway, my body grateful for the soft cushions. Childbirth is no joke. Every muscle aches, and I'm pretty sure I'll never walk normally again.
Kazimir returns a few minutes later with two mugs, setting mine on the side table before settling beside me. His arm goes around my shoulders automatically, and I lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent.
"She's perfect," I whisper, watching Anya sleep. "Isn't she perfect?"
"She's perfect because she's yours." His voice is soft, full of wonder. "She has your nose. Your mouth."
