"How are you feeling?" he asked, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"Good. Tired. Happy she came."
"She's a good friend."
"She is." I leaned back into him, letting his warmth seep into me. "She said you look at me like I hung the moon."
"Do I?"
"Apparently."
"Well." He pressed a kiss to my neck. "You did hang the moon. My moon, anyway."
"That's cheesy."
"It's accurate."
We stood there in silence, watching the light change, the city transforming from gold to purple to black. The baby kicked again, and Rodion's hand moved to feel it, his palm warm against my skin.
"Kirill called while you were with Amber," he said quietly. "There's movement in Serbia. Milos is making inquiries, reaching out to old allies."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's planning something. We don't know what yet, but Kirill's watching. When the time comes, we'll be ready."
I nodded slowly. The threat was still there, still looming. It might always be there, in one form or another. That was the reality of this life.
But standing here, with Rodion's arms around me and our daughter growing between us, I found I wasn't afraid. Not the way I used to be. Fear was still there—it would always be there—but it didn't control me anymore.
"Whatever comes," I said, "we face it together."
"Together," he agreed.
I turned in his arms and looked up at him—this man who had become my husband, my lover, my partner in everything. This man I'd chosen, and who had chosen me.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too."
He kissed me, soft and slow, and I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into the life we'd built against all odds.
It wasn't a fairy tale. There was no happily ever after, no guarantee that tomorrow would be safe. The world we lived in was dangerous and uncertain, full of enemies and threats and hard choices.
But it was ours. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
***
Later that night, I lay awake watching him sleep.
It was something I'd started doing in the early weeks, when I was still learning to trust the safety of sharing a bed with someone. Back then, I'd watched him because I was afraid—afraid of what he might do, afraid of what I'd gotten myself into, afraid that the peace was temporary.
Now I watched him for different reasons.
He slept these days deeply. Peacefully. His face relaxed, his breathing even, none of the restless tension I rememberedfrom our earliest nights together. The insomnia that had brought him to my office—the sleeplessness that had plagued him for years—had faded over the months, replaced by something that looked almost like peace.
I remembered what he'd told me once, back when we were still learning each other: that he'd lain awake for years, his mind churning through mistakes and regrets and fears he couldn't escape. That sleep had been a battle he lost more often than he won.
"You fixed me," he'd said one morning, half-asleep, his words slurred with exhaustion. "I don't know how, but you fixed me."
