Maybe because he loves her. Maybe because he knows chasing Anna would only push her deeper into the choice she already made. Maybe because, after everything that happened, he decided our home needed more peace than revenge.
He has never said which one it is.
And I have never asked him.
Viktor comes back downstairs with Mila against his bare chest.
She’s wide awake, dark eyes blinking seriously at the room, one tiny fist pressed to his skin as if she owns him.
She does.
He brings her to me and sits on the rug. “Someone demanded her mother.”
“She demanded food.”
“She can be complex.”
I take her, settle her against me, and she latches with the dramatic relief of someone who has suffered terribly for ninety seconds.
Viktor watches us like he always does. Quietly. Like he still can’t believe we are both here.
“She looks like you when she’s annoyed,” I say.
“She looks like me all the time.”
“She has my mouth.”
“And my stubbornness.”
“That’s not something to brag about.”
“It kept her alive.”
That quiets me.
He reaches out and brushes one finger over Mila’s cheek, careful as ever. The room softens around the three of us. Firelight. Snow outside. His hand on my thigh. My daughter warm in my arms.
This is not the life I imagined for myself.
It’s stranger. Riskier.
Far less clean.
But it is mine.
After a while, Viktor says, “Marry me.”
I look at him. “That was abrupt.”
“No. I’ve been thinking it for months.”
“That makes it less abrupt for you.”
His mouth curves, then the humor fades. “I know what my life is,” he says. “I know what it asks of you. I know I can’t promise simple. But I can promise that you and Mila come first. Always.”
My throat tightens.
He looks at our daughter, then back at me. “I want us to be a family in every way you’ll allow.”
