Page 119

No matter the room, no matter the mood, no matter what expression he walks in wearing—when he looks at her, something in him gives way. It’s one of the few things in this world I have never doubted. My father loves my mother with a certainty that feels older than language.

“There you are,” he says softly.

The words are for both of us, but the way he says them, the way his eyes settle on her as he crosses the room, makes it feel like he’s been looking for her specifically since the second he walked through the hospital doors.

He stops beside her chair and rests one hand on her shoulder first, then slides it gently to the back of her neck, thumb brushing just under her hairline.

It’s such a familiar gesture that it almost hurts to watch. Possessive in the gentlest way. Intimate without ever becoming a performance.

My mother tips her face up toward him, and for the first time since I woke up, I see some of the strain in her ease.

“She’s been worrying herself sick,” my father says, though his eyes are still on her.

“I wonder why,” she replies dryly.

His mouth curves just slightly.

Then he bends and presses a kiss to her temple, lingering there for half a second longer than necessary.

“Ne volnuysya tak, lyubov moya,” he says quietly. Don’t worry so much, my love.

“I’m allowed to worry,” she murmurs.

“You are,” he agrees, his mouth curving faintly. “But you do it too beautifully. It’s distracting.”

She manages not to blush and gives him a look instead. He chuckles, then brings his attention to me.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s a simple question, but with him there is always something beneath the surface. Not pressure or scrutiny. Just the expectation that if he is asking, I answer honestly.

“Embarrassed,” I say. “I fainted in front of half the Sinclair family and would like to be legally declared dead.”

A flicker of amusement touches his face. “So you’re feeling like yourself.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good.”

My mother gives him a look. “That is not comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant for you,” he replies mildly, stroking his thumb once along the back of her neck before letting his hand fall back to her shoulder.

I huff out a laugh before I can stop it. My father glances at me, satisfied enough by the sound that he doesn’t say anything about it.

“I wanna go home,” I say, before either of them can decide on my future without consulting me.

My mother sighs softly.

My father studies me.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“You may have to stay until they discharge you properly.”

“I know. I still want to go.”