But I’ll do it. For her. For our child.
For whatever the fuck this thing between us is becoming.
I catch up to her on the stairs. She’s got one hand on the railing, the other pressed to her stomach. She’s moving slow, exhausted. The pregnancy is taking its toll, and she’s too stubborn to admit it.
“You don’t have to run back to your room, you know.”
She doesn’t turn around. “I’m not running.”
“You’re moving at a pace that suggests you’d rather be anywhere but here.” I take the stairs two at a time and stand next to her.“When’s the last time you ate something that didn’t come right back up?”
When she doesn’t answer, I nod. “That’s what I thought. A pregnant woman needs copious amounts of folic acid, calcium, and iron.” I step in front of her, blocking her path. “You’re getting none of those things if you can’t keep food down.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You’ve been reading pregnancy books?”
“I’ve been reading everything I can find.”
“That’s surprisingly responsible of you.”
“Come on.” I turn and head back down the stairs. “I’m making you food.”
“I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“Your stomach says otherwise. I can hear it growling from here.”
She follows me—reluctantly, sure, but she follows. Small victories.
The kitchen is empty when we enter. Babushka must have retired for the evening, leaving behind the lingering scent of whatever she cooked earlier. I flip on the lights and head straight for the refrigerator.
“Sit,” I tell Olivia, gesturing at the island.
“I can help?—”
“Sit.”
She perches on one of the barstools and watches me. I pull out ingredients methodically: fresh fish from this morning’s grocery delivery, fennel, butter, greens from Babushka’s garden.
I wash my hands and get to work. The knife carves easily through the fish, separating flesh from bone. It’s meditative to focus on something so small and precise.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asks.
“Mostly from Babushka.” I don’t look up from the cutting board. The fennel falls into thin slices under my blade. “She liked to teach me a new recipe every week. Said a man who couldn’t feed himself was worthless.” I glance at her. “She also said a man who couldn’t feed his woman was even worse.”
Olivia’s cheeks flush. “I’m not your woman.”
“You’re carrying my child. That makes you mine, whether you like it or not.”
“Possessive much?”
“You have no idea.”
I heat butter in the pan, watching it foam and brown. The fish goes in with a satisfying sizzle. The scent fills the kitchen—rich, savory, alive.
“What else did Babushka teach you?”
“How to survive. How to hide. How to make sure no one ever got close enough to hurt me again.” I flip the fish. “Useful skills when your uncle wants you dead and your mother’s a ghost in the wind.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry. That must have been terrifying.”
