Page 67 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

Inside the parking lot, just in the first row, a white van is parked, lights off, side door slightly open.

I stop ten meters away. Ruslan remains still.

"Confirmation code?" a male voice asks.

"Sierra-Foxtrot-Seven."

A faint crackle in an earpiece. Then:

"Access granted. Get in."

Ruslan climbs in first, I follow right behind. Inside, a man in civilian clothes, black sweater, shoulder holster. He assesses us, eyeing Ruslan.

"Got a medic?" I ask.

He nods.

"Waiting at the safe house."

He shuts the door, taps on the panel. The van pulls away silently.

I glance at Ruslan. His forehead glistens with sweat, his breathing shallower. The bleeding is controlled, but time is against us.

The smell of blood and burnt powder clings to my clothes as the van finally comes to a stop. I glance at Ruslan—his face is paler, pain evident in his features.

"We’re here."

The agent in civilian clothes slides the door open and signals us to get out. I scan our surroundings. Old suburban house, nondescript facade, unkempt yard. Nothing that draws attention.

"Follow me."

Inside, the space is minimalistic, clean. White walls, basic furniture. A standard safe house. Efficient.

In the living room, a man in a lab coat stands immediately. Forties, glasses, an open medical kit at his feet.

"Lay him down there."

I guide Ruslan to the couch. He doesn’t protest, teeth clenched, but I see the tension in his face as he sits. The doctor cuts his shirt away and examines the wound carefully.

"Through-and-through shot. Good news, nothing vital hit. Bad news, it’s going to hurt."

Ruslan lets out a short laugh. The doctor meticulously cleans the wound. Ruslan’s muscles tighten with the pain, his fist clenched. Sitting on the other side of the couch, I take his hand in mine, offering all the comfort I can. As the needle pierces his skin to stitch the wound, his grip on my hand tightens.

Twenty minutes later, it’s over. Clean bandage, painkillers administered. The doctor packs his tools.

"Rest. No unnecessary strain."

Ruslan nods, but we both know he won’t follow orders.

An agent steps in, his gaze locked on me.

"The chief wants a debrief tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock."

I nod. They’ll want answers.

Ruslan and I settle into one of the rooms, finally savoring the relief of lying down. Nestled against him, careful of his wounded shoulder, I feel his lips brush against my hair. The realization hits me—I could have lost him tonight. His betrayal, his lies, all seem insignificant compared to the bond that ties us. I will never forget that he shielded me with his own body from the first gunshot.

I lift my head to gaze at the man who is mine—flawed, imperfect, yet the only one who makes my heart race. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady. He’s finally asleep. A wave of tenderness washes over me, and in the quiet of the night, I whisper: "I love you."