“Me?” I gasp, grinning as his lips trace back to mine. “You’re the one—”
“Making you laugh?” he teases, kissing me again, harder thistime.
We tumble sideways, tangled, the kiss turning hot, urgent, a rhythm we’ve both been holding back too long. My fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, feeling the hard lines of muscle, and he groans into my mouth like it’s been killing him not to.
Then we both freeze, breathless, the weight of the house pressing in, the still rooms, the tiny breaths of children asleep. I press my forehead to his, whispering, “We can’t.”
He nods, grinning, still too close. “I know.”
My lips brush his again, soft this time, lingering. “We really can’t.”
“We already look like a married couple,” he murmurs, thumb stroking my cheek. “Sneaking this in between feedings and dragon slaying.”
That makes me laugh, true and helpless, until he adds with a wicked grin, “For the record, doktorka, I’mdefinitelybreathing fire.”
Chapter 15
Honoring Our Lady
May in Seattle never makes up its mind. Half the day is rain, half the day is light, and all of it is threaded with tulips bursting in stubborn little clumps on every corner. The week unfurls in its usual pattern, except now, Dominik's calls every night have almost become routine. I say goodnight to Zosia, he tucks her in and playfully reads a book to both of us. Once she’s asleep, things always seem to linger, to teeter onalmost.Things we bite down, should anyone interrupt. He distracts me with stories of his crew’s idiocy; I counter with Conrad’s eighty-eight-year-old patient-turned-admirer sending him a fruit basket. I call it “the blush of young love,” and Dominik laughs until he wheezes on the other end.
Obelus sends a few more comments about his eyes, not really questions, just observations. Scattered thoughts dropped one after another, curiosity slowly turning toward something morepersonal.I doubt myself, wondering if I'm just going insane, imagining it. Or if he really is trying to spark conversation with me. Either way,I don’t respond. I warned him I wouldn’t, even if it makes me look cold. The number is for emergencies only. I can’t keep stepping back into that space with him.
Guilt presses in regardless. Leaving him on read feels unkind, but not unkind enough to risk my license or my sanity. Despite themaddening pull or the way I let the phone linger in my hand when I read them, I hold the line.
The sun slants low through Mama and Tata’s kitchen window, glinting off the framed icons Mama always sets out this month, blue-draped images of the Virgin Mary with fresh flowers tucked beneath the glass.
“May is for honoring Our Lady,” she reminds us every year, as though we could forget. She mutters about which candle looks ‘proper enough for the Mother of God.’
Natalia breezes in, phone already in hand, filming as she circles the table. “It’s like a Pinterest board of religion,” she says, angling for the best shot.
Mama blinks at her. “What is this… Pinterest?”
I step in before Natalia can explain it in a way that will definitely earn her a lecture. “A place with pretty pictures and ideas, Mama.”
Mama nods, satisfied, smoothing a hand over the glass frame. “Ah. Then it is a compliment.”
From Natalia, it is. Piotr leans in the doorway, baby in his arms, smirk already aimed at me. “Finally, siostra decides to join us. Aga's already helping Mama. Maybe you are too good now? Too busy in your fancy white coat to honor Mary?”
I groan, but head into the kitchen anyway, falling into rhythm with Mama, the same ritual every May, bigger meals, the air almost more mass than dinner.
Aga stirs something fragrant at the stove, her belly just starting to show, baby number two is on the way and Piotr wants more boys while Aga prays for a girl. She waves a spoon at Piotr like a weapon. “Don’t even start. If Mary can manage a manger birth without complaint, you can manage to be nice with your siostra.”
I laugh, slip past to kiss Mama’s cheek while she rolls cabbages. Dominik’s chair is empty across the table. I tell myself I shouldn’t notice, shouldn’t care. But my eyes keep dragging to the door.
Piotr notices too, elbowing Aga with a grin. “Don’t worry, doktórka. He’ll be here.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I mutter, reaching for the bread basket. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Still, my pulse jumps when the front door opens and Zosia’s chatter tumbles down the hall. Relief rushes me, sudden and sweet.
Dominik steps in, windblown, still in his work boots, Zosia clinging to his hand and clutching a crumpled flower she must have plucked from someone’s yard. He kneels, shows her how to lay it carefully at Mary’s feet, his voice low, reverent. I don’t know what steals my breath more, the tenderness in his hands or the fact that he’s teaching her the same rituals our parents once pressed into us.
Then he looks up and finds me watching. The corner of his mouth lifts slow, like he knew I’d be waiting.
Dominik doesn’t take his usual seat across the table. Tonight he slides into the chair right beside me, Zosia climbing into my lap as though it’s where she belongs. Her little hands toy with my necklace, and I let her, my heart flipping wildly.
Piotr slaps his knee with a bark of laughter. “When’s the wedding then?”
