54. Sophie
54
SOPHIE
T he waiting room feels like a purgatory of bad coffee, cheap linoleum, and stale air. I sit there, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles have turned white.
Every second drags on, the clock on the wall mocking me with its sluggish hands.
Did he hear me? He didn’t move or speak when I told him I’m pregnant. Is he dying? Already dead?
A doctor steps into the room. His scrubs are stained with blood, his face drawn but calm.
“Mrs. Abramov?” he asks.
I leap to my feet. “Is he?—”
“He’s stable,” the doctor says, cutting through my panic. Relief crashes over me like a wave, leaving me weak. “The bullet missed anything vital, but it was close. We’ve stopped the bleeding and closed him up. He’ll need a lot of rest, but he’s going to make it.”
I nod, barely able to process the words. “Can I see him?”
“Not for long,” the doctor cautions. “He’s still under the effects of the anesthesia.”
I follow him through the maze of hallways, my heart pounding with every step. When we reach Maxim’s room, the doctor steps aside, and I push the door open.
Tubes and monitors surround him, their rhythmic beeping the only sign of life. For a moment, I can’t move, can’t breathe. Seeing him like this—so vulnerable, so human—it’s too much.
I force myself forward, sinking into the chair beside his bed. My fingers brush his, hesitant at first, then firmer. His skin is warm, and the contact steadies me.
“Hey, peanut butter hoarder,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that again.”
His eyes flicker open, heavy-lidded and unfocused. “Sophie?” His voice is rough. “Never show fear to your enemies.”
“You’re not my enemy,” I say, leaning closer. “You’re my husband.”
He blinks slowly, his gaze sharpening as it locks on mine. “You stayed.”
“Of course I stayed,” I say, my throat tightening. “Did you think I’d just leave you here?”
His hand shifts, weakly curling around mine. The gesture is so small, but it speaks volumes. I stare at him, my chest aching with emotions I can’t even begin to name. “I heard you in the ambulance,” he says. “You’re pregnant.”
“And? Are you happy about it?”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then his grip tightens—just slightly, but enough to make me look up. His eyes, though tired, are fiercely alive.
“We might have to rethink the whole thirty day thing,” he rasps, his voice stronger now.
“I was thinking that too. How does a lifetime sound?”
“Sounds like I’ll have to stock up on peanut butter.”