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“It smelled like mango margarita!”

We laugh. Together. For the first time in what feels like weeks.

But then… silence again. Not her usual dramatic pause. This one’s heavier. And I know exactly what she’s about to ask.

“So,” she says too casually. “Where’s Tall, Brooding, and Russian?”

I blink at the ceiling. “New York.”

“What, just—vanished? After the world’s most awkward family dinner?”

“Said he had to check out a new construction site.”

“In person? With a healing wife and three kids and a literal assassination attempt in the rearview mirror?”

“Elena—”

“I’m just saying,” she huffs. “That’s some top-tier avoidance. Did he even text? Call? Send a raven?”

I hesitate. Because no, he didn’t. Not since he cut my duck breast and told a table full of mafia royalty that he was feeding his wife.

“It’s been eight days,” I say quietly.

Elena lets out a slow breath. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I spend time with the kids. Help Lev and Nikolai with their essays. Alya’s glued to me like a koala. It’s… weirdly sweet. They’ve all grown on me.”

“Of course they have. You’re basically biologically engineered for chaos and small humans.”

“You know what else I just realized?” I shift upright, heart skipping.

“What?”

“I’m late.”

Pause.

“Like, your period?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“Maybe it’s stress,” she offers.

“Maybe it’s something else.”

“You mean… Russian-swimmer-sperm-level something else?”

I groan. “Please never say that again.”

“Too late. I’m sending you a care package. It’s going to include five kinds of chocolate, a heating pad, a test, and an exorcism kit.”

I laugh. Again. But this time, I feel it in my ribs and in the place behind them. The part that aches a little too much when I remember he’s been gone.

Eight days. And not a word.

Outside, the sun dips lower beyond the glass doors of my balcony, spilling amber light across the rugs. I rest my head back. And wait.