Stay.
Do nothing.
Wait.
From behind the door, I don’t hear the sounds of someone actually being sick.
Instead, I hear a string of muffled, rhythmic swearing.
Deep. Guttural. Creative.
Then silence.
Maybe heavy breathing.
Then the unmistakable sound of pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Then—
“Ouch! Fuckety fuck. Stupid toe.”
More swearing.
A flicker of worry sparks in my chest.
I glance toward the bathroom door.
Should I check on him?
Should I say something?
Apologize?
For what, exactly?
For existing?
For suddenly sharing his last name?
For being the absolute worst possible person he could have accidentally married?
My fingers curl into my palms.
I don’t know how long I stay rooted to the spot, my toes digging into the plush carpet, staring at the closed door.
Maybe I should knock.
Ask if he needs water. An ice pack. A paper bag to scream into.
Or a hug.
But the rational part of me—the part that has survived twenty-three years of being Viktor Petrov’s daughter—knows better.
You don’t approach a wounded bear, and you certainly don’t approach a Metro Raptor who has just realized he’s legally tied to the one person in the world who could get him permanently blacklisted from the NHL.
