17. Recovery
Recovery
Nikolai Levin
The rhythmic, sterile beep-beep-beep was the first thing that reached me.
My mind dragged itself up through layers of heavy, suffocating darkness. Every inch of my body felt leaden, but the sharpest reality was a dull, burning ache deep in my abdomen.
I blinked against the harsh sunlight streaming through the blinds. White ceiling. Disinfectant in the air. Clear plastic tubing hooked to my arm.
A hospital room.
My hand felt heavy, grounded by a solid, comforting warmth wrapped around my fingers.
I tilted my head slowly, fighting the fog in my brain.
Zhenya was right beside me.
He was slumped awkwardly in a hospital chair, his body angled forward with his head resting on the edge of the mattress, right next to my hip.
He was still wearing a wrinkled dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, but his jacket was nowhere to be seen.
Dark, exhaustion-carved shadows lined his closed eyes, and his jaw was shadowed with stubble.
He looked entirely undone—nothing like the untouchable man who usually commanded every room he walked into.
Even in his sleep, his hand hadn’t loosened its grip on mine.
A wave of quiet warmth spread through my chest, overriding the physical pain. He had stayed. He had waited for me.
Slowly, using every bit of strength I could muster, I lifted my free hand. My fingers trembled as I reached out, gently brushing a lock of soft, silver-light hair away from his forehead.
The touch was light, but Zhenya stirred instantly.
His eyes snapped open—sharp, tense, ready for a threat—before his gaze collided with mine.
For a second, he froze, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was looking at. The usual guarded composure completely shattered, replaced by a raw relief.
His fingers tightened around my hand, his grip fierce and shaking.
“Nikolai…” he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly from disuse. He didn’t move away; he just leaned closer, resting his forehead against the edge of the mattress as he let out a long, shuddering breath.
He scrambled up in the chair, his grip on my hand almost painfully tight.
“Nikolai.”
His voice cracked. For a second he just stared at me, his eyes wide and bloodshot, scanning my face as if checking to see if I was real. The cold, impenetrable Zhenya was completely gone.
He reached out with his free hand, his fingers trembling as he touched my cheek. His thumb stroked over my skin.
“You’re awake,” he breathed. A ragged laugh escaped his chest. “God, Niko… you’re awake.”
I tried to speak, but my throat was completely dry.
Zhenya didn’t wait. He grabbed the plastic cup of water from the table, his hands shaking so badly the ice clinked against the sides. He held the straw to my lips, supporting the back of my head with delicate care.
I took a small sip, the cool liquid soothing the burn in my throat.
The moment I leaned back against the pillow, Zhenya bent down, pressing his forehead hard against mine. His breath hitched, hot and uneven against my skin.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he whispered, his voice thick. “Do you hear me? Never.”
I managed a weak, faint smile. “I’m here.”
“You are,” he said, resting his cheek against my palm and shutting his eyes, as if finally allowing himself to breathe for the first time in days. “You’re here.”
I let my eyes wander over him.
Same shirt. Same rolled sleeves. Same trousers he’d been wearing the last time I saw him. There was even a faint trace of dried blood near his cuff. His silver hair was disheveled, falling across his forehead, and the shadow along his jaw had grown dark.
“You haven’t changed.”
Zhenya opened his eyes. “What?”
“Your clothes.”
He glanced down at his shirt, then back up at me. “I was busy.”
“You haven’t shaved, either.”
“I was a little more concerned with whether you’d wake up.”
“You look awful.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
I smiled softly.
He reached for the water again. “You need to rest.”
“I am resting.”
“You’re talking.”
“That’s generally what people do when they’re conscious.”
He shot me a look. I tried to laugh, but the movement tugged sharply at my abdomen, and the smile died on my lips.
Zhenya caught it instantly. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
He reached for the nurse call button before I could protest, then pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Olga.”
A beat.
“Nikolai’s awake.” His tone softened just a fraction. “Prepare something light for him. Nothing heavy, nothing spicy.” He looked over at me. “What do you want?”
“Soup,” I said. “Chicken soup. And bread.”
He relayed the order, then added, “And something sweet. Whatever you think is best. Make enough for two.”
He hung up.
“You’re ordering food already?” I asked.
“You need to eat.”
“We need to eat, Zhenya. You look like you haven’t had a meal in days.”
Olga arrived with a tray not long after. She fussed over me for a few minutes, tutting under her breath, before finally leaving us alone.
Zhenya pulled his chair closer and fed me himself, steady and patient.
Who knew the man could turn out to be such a caretaker?
* * *
Three days later, the doctor finally cleared me to leave. I was more relieved than I cared to admit.
The nurse walked through my prescriptions one last time while Zhenya hovered beside the bed, paying far closer attention than I was.
“These are for after meals, these twice a day, and the pain medication only as needed.”
Zhenya gave a firm nod. “I’ll make sure he takes them.”
I glanced up at him. “You sound like a drill sergeant.”
“Someone has to keep you functional.”
The nurse hid a smile as she handed over the discharge papers. Zhenya took them and folded them neatly into his coat pocket. Olga had already sent a driver to pack up my things earlier that morning, so we didn’t have much to carry out.
I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and stepped into my shoes. No dizziness this time. No sudden drop in my stomach—just a dull, manageable ache behind the bandages.
Zhenya’s hand wrapped around mine the second I stood. I didn’t pull away; I just leaned into him as we walked out into the corridor.
Three days in a hospital room makes the real world feel loud. Sunlight hitting the glass, the smell of fresh air near the lobby, traffic humming down on the street—even just moving without a monitor trailing behind me felt bizarre.
Lev had the car idling right at the main entrance. He held the door open, eyeing me carefully as I slid onto the leather seat. Zhenya got in right after me, setting a hand on my knee before pulling the door shut.
As we pulled away into the afternoon traffic, I watched the hospital fade in the side mirror. A quiet wave of relief finally settled over my chest.
Zhenya reached over, his palm warm against mine, and I laced my fingers through his.