“Three pregnancies,” he says, lowering his mouth toward my ear, “with one being twins.”
I laugh, swatting at his arm. “You can’t control that!”
He only arches a brow. “Lily.”
The way he says my name—low, amused, patient—undoes me. “Okay,” I sigh dramatically, playing along. “Three pregnancies, but only if you build me a library in your house.”
“Already in construction,” he replies without missing a beat, his voice a warm murmur.
“Really?” I ask, turning my head enough to meet his eyes.
“I know my wife,” he says simply, pressing a light kiss to the crown of my wet hair.
I laugh again, softer this time. “Wait—four kids means no quiet mornings.”
“I’ll make time for it,” he promises, brushing his thumb along my shoulder. “Nik owes me hours of babysitting.”
I settle deeper between Aleksandr’s thighs, the water lapping gently against our skin. I never thought about kids before, but now the image sneaks in uninvited — a row of little Aleksandrs with matching scowls and impossible gray eyes, marching in tiny formation. The thought makes me laugh under my breath. Their serious little faces. Their stubbornness. The sparkle in their eyes when they get excited. They’ll be perfect if they’re anything like him.
For a flicker of a moment, though, something twists beneath the warmth. I remember the silence of my father’s house after he died — the way the walls seemed to echo with his absence. I remember learning too young that safety can vanish overnight, that the people meant to protect you can be gone before you even understand what the wordsafemeans. Since then, I never imagined I’d have a family again. I built my life around the idea that I’d have to carry myself, feed myself, protect myself. It became muscle memory — the constant, quiet hum of survival.
And now here I am, sitting in a sunlit bath, thinking about children with a man who makes the world feel less sharp. It feels impossible. It feels dangerous. It feels… like hope.
“Okay, so I’ll have to let Nadi know I’m going to be on maternity leave soon,” I whisper, teasing, and he pulls me back flat against his chest with a low grunt that sounds a lot like a warning.
“Since I assume we’re starting sooner rather than later,” I add, unable to hide my grin.
“You don’t have to worry about working anymore, Lils,” he whispers into the curve of my neck. His breath is warm against my skin, his tone softer than I expect.
“What?” I turn my head slightly, trying to see his expression, but he just trails a wet fingertip down my arm.
“You can do anything,” he says quietly. “Be a stay-at-home wife. Be a professional reader. Start an editing company. Anything.”
I shift in the water, his words wrapping around me in a way I can’t quite escape. “You say that like I’m supposed to stop living the life I built before you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, full and steady, until I feel him exhale against my shoulder.
“I just want to give you the kind of life you never thought you could have,” he says at last, voice rougher now. “All those years we weren’t together… I owe you more than I can give. I missed too much.”
I glance down at our joined hands, his larger one covering mine, our fingers wrinkled from the heat. “You don’t owe me anything,” I say softly. “We both missed time. That’s different.”
His hand tightens around mine. “It’s not different to me,” he murmurs. “You were always there — waiting, surviving, working — while I was out building walls so high you couldn’t reach me. I don’t get those years back. But I can make sure the ones ahead are better.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t have to make up for anything, Aleksandr.”
“I do,” he says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. “Every morning you wake up next to me, I’m making up for it. Everylaugh. Every time you tell me you’re happy. That’s me trying to give you back what you lost.”
I tilt my head to look at him, water slipping down between us. “You’re not supposed to fix me,” I whisper. “You’re just supposed to be here.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes softened but unreadable. “Then let me do both,” he says, voice low, steady. “Let me be here and still make it better.”
The water sways gently around us, scented with rose and salt. I close my eyes, leaning back into him until his heartbeat steadies against my spine, and instead of fighting I let go, and say, “Okay.”
16
ALEKSANDR
The next evening,I had to drag Lily out of the villa. We’d spent the day in a haze of sheets and stolen kisses, neither of us willing to let go. If I didn’t force us into the world again, we’d never leave that bed.
