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ARTEM
The same private facility receives us that Harper was rushed to about a month ago, the same quiet corridors, some of the same staff moving through them with the same steady calm I remember from that first terrifying night.
The recognition of the place hits me harder than I expect it to, a strange doubling of memory laid over the present moment, the same fear I felt then somehow both familiar and considerably worse now that I know exactly what she survived to get here.
This time I’m not pacing outside a room waiting for permission to enter as I did before. I’m beside her the entire way in, her hand still gripping mine as they wheel her back for assessment, and I don’t let go until a nurse gently, firmly, tells me I need to step back so they can actually do their work.
Letting go of her hand costs more than it reasonably should; some part of me is convinced that maintaining contact is the only thing keeping either of us steady right now.
I don’t go far at all. I stand just outside the curtain, close enough to hear every word exchanged on the other side of it, refusing to let more than a few feet of fabric separate us for longer than necessary.
My hands stay clenched at my sides, the graze on my forearm forgotten entirely against the much larger fear still gripping every other part of me right now.
The doctor arrives within minutes, the same gray-haired woman from before, unhurried in the same way that used to read as coldness to me and now reads as exactly the competence this situation requires.
She runs through the same tests as last time: bloodwork, vitals, an ultrasound to check on the pregnancy directly, and I stand there through all of it with my jaw locked tight, waiting for an answer I cannot speed up, no matter how much I want to. The seconds out longer than seconds should reasonably be capable of stretching, each one carrying its own separate weight of dread.
“Heart rate’s strong,” the doctor says eventually, and something in my chest finally loosens at the words, the first real breath I’ve taken since the phone rang two days ago, my whole body sagging with a relief I don’t have the words to describe fully. “The pregnancy’s intact. No signs of distress on the scan.”
Harper makes a sound beside me that’s half sob, half laugh, and I reach for her hand again right away, no longer able to keep even a professional distance from her now that the worst of the fear has actually lifted. Her fingers close around mine tight enough to hurt, and I welcome every bit of that pressure without complaint.
“She’s going to be fine,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else in the room, testing the words to see if I actually believe them yet, saying them again in my head a second time just to make them feel more solid than they currently do.
“The baby’s going to be fine.” The doctor’s voice carries a note of caution I don’t miss. “Harper’s a different conversation.”
I turn to look at her fully then, and it’s the first time since we cleared that building that I let myself actually see the damage instead of just registering that she’s alive. Bruising along one wrist where the restraints cut deepest.
A split in her lip that’s only just stopped bleeding. Exhaustion carved into every line of her face, deeper than two days should account for on their own. There are marks I haven’t fully noted in my head yet, ones I know I’ll need to see clearly at some point even though every part of me wants to look away from them right now.
“She’s severely dehydrated, malnourished relative to what a pregnancy at this stage requires, and her body’s been running on adrenaline for longer than it can safely sustain.” The doctor checks something on her chart, methodical, unhurried. “Physically, she needs rest, real food, fluids, and time. I’d estimate at least a week before she’s back to anything resembling normal, longer before the exhaustion fully clears.”
“And beyond the physical?”
“That’s not something I can put a timeline on.” The doctor’s gaze shifts to Harper, professional but not unkind. “Two days of captivity leave marks that don’t show up on bloodwork. She’ll need support beyond what medicine alone can offer, and that kind of healing doesn’t follow a schedule anyone can predict in advance.”
Harper’s quiet through the exchange, watching us discuss her like she’s simultaneously present and somewhere else entirely, her eyes tracking between the doctor and me with an exhaustion that goes beyond simple physical tiredness.
I catch her eyes and hold them, wanting her to know I’m not going to let this conversation happen around her instead of with her.
“Whatever she needs,” I say, meaning it fully, my voice steadier than I feel saying it. “However long it takes. I’m not walking away from any part of this.”
The doctor nods, satisfied with my answer, and steps out to arrange the room where Harper will stay for observation, leaving the two of us alone in the small space behind the curtain for the first time since we arrived.
The quiet that settles between us feels different from any other silence we’ve shared, heavier with everything neither of us has said out loud yet.
“You heard all of that,” Harper says quietly, voice still rough from days of dehydration and screaming and everything else this ordeal cost her.
“I heard it.”
“I’m not going to bounce back from this in a week just because she said a week.” Her hand tightens around mine. “I need you actually to understand that. This isn’t something I walk away from clean.”
“I know.” I bring her hand up, pressing my mouth to her raw knuckles, careful of the bruising there. “I don’t expect clean. I expect however long this actually takes, and I intend to be here for every part of it, whatever that ends up looking like.”
She studies my face for a long moment, searching for something I hope she finds there, some proof that this promise carries the same weight as every other one I’ve made her since the terrace conversation weeks ago.
Whatever she sees seems to satisfy her, her shoulders dropping a fraction, some tension I hadn’t fully registered easing out of her posture at last.
A nurse pokes her head in a while later, gently suggesting I might want to go home and rest for a bit, that visiting hours technically ended some time ago, that I look like I could use a shower and a real meal myself right now.
