The warmth of his palm seeped into my skin, sending a shiver up my arm that had nothing to do with fear.
I had missed that gentleness.
God help me—I had missed him.
I missed Dmitri.
The nineteen-year-old boy who had climbed the trellis outside my father’s estate at midnight, knuckles bruised and bleeding, clutching stolen flowers he couldn’t afford but insisted on giving me anyway.
The boy who smelled of rain and cheap cigarettes, who laughed too loud when he was nervous.
The boy who had hidden the welts his aunt left on his back beneath long sleeves, who flinched at raised voices yet still smiled at me like I was the only safe place he knew.
My first love.
The one who had whispered promises against my skin in the dark, swearing the world would never touch me as long as he lived—before the world tore us apart anyway.
“Dmitri...” My voice fractured around his name.
The sound alone felt dangerous. Tears spilled before I could stop them, blurring his face into something fragile and unreal.
He reacted instantly.
His free hand came up, thumb brushing the wetness from my cheek with a tenderness so careful it hurt more than cruelty ever had.
Like he was afraid even my tears might wound him.
“No,” he murmured, voice low and unsteady. “Don’t cry. Please.” His breath shuddered. “I don’t deserve your tears anymore. They’ll break what’s left of me.”
His thumb lingered at my cheekbone, warm, grounding. “I just want to see you happy again—for the rest of your days. Even if that happiness has nothing to do with me.”
The words lodged in my chest, heavy and sharp.
I nodded because I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
My throat felt like it was closing in on itself, choking on everything I’d never been allowed to say.
A moment passed. Then another.
“My arm’s numb,” I managed finally, my voice thin. “Vanya’s been asleep on me for hours.”
He glanced down instinctively, eyes softening at the sight of his son.
“How about we ask Edward to carry him back to your room?” he suggested gently. Not commanding. Not assuming. Just offering. “You should rest too.”
I nodded again.
He reached for the bedside phone with slow, careful movements, mindful of the IV line taped to his arm.
His voice was low when he spoke—controlled, stripped of authority, almost humble. Less than a minute later, Edward appeared at the door, silent and efficient as ever, eyes flicking briefly to Dmitri before settling on Vanya.
Dmitri gestured weakly toward the sleeping boy.
Edward stepped forward, slid his arms beneath Vanya with practiced gentleness, and lifted him as though he weighed nothing at all.
Vanya stirred only slightly, mumbling something incoherent before nestling closer to Edward’s shoulder. The sight nearly undid me.
Edward gave us a small, respectful nod—no questions, no commentary—and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.