Page 59 of Marrying the Pakhan

Once she’s finally asleep, book abandoned halfway through the seventh chapter, Viktor finds me still standing at the top of the stairs.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Most of it. The crawl space bit especially.”

“She’s not wrong. That crawl space is genuinely unsettling.” He leans against the wall beside me, tired in the particular way that comes from answering forty consecutive questions from a six-year-old with total sincerity. “She’s going to be a good big sister. Bossy, probably. But good.”

“You’re going to be a good dad.”

He goes quiet at that, studying me for a long moment before answering. “I hope so,” he says finally. “I didn’t have much of a model for it, growing up. I’m mostly figuring it out as I go, based on what feels right instead of what I actually know.”

“For what it’s worth, what feels right to you looks a lot like actually being a good father.”

He kisses my temple, unhurried, grateful in a way that doesn’t need words attached to it, and we stand there together at the top of the stairs a while longer, listening to the quiet house settle around a family that’s grown considerably bigger than either of us originally planned for, in every sense that matters.

“For what it’s worth,” I say eventually, “watching you tonight, I don’t think you need a model. I think you’re just naturally good at this part, whether you had one or not.”

“You’re biased. You’re carrying my child.”

“I’m allowed to be biased and also correct.”

27

VIKTOR

Six Weeks Later…

Harper’s been stuck on the couch for the better part of ten minutes, trying and failing to get herself upright without tipping the bowl of ice cream balanced precariously on the arm of the cushion.

“Don’t laugh,” she warns, catching my expression from the doorway.

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re laughing internally. I can tell.”

“I would never.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her attempt a second strategy involving the couch cushion as leverage. “Though for the record, this is objectively very funny.”

“Traitor.”

I cross the room and offer her both hands, and she takes them, letting me pull her up with the particular gracelessness that twenty-two weeks apparently requires of even the most determined woman.

“Thank you,” she says, steadying herself against my chest once she’s fully vertical. “This entire process has been humbling in ways nobody adequately warned me about.”

“You’re allowed to ask for help before you’re stranded on a couch for ten minutes.”

“I like proving I can do it myself first. Then I ask for help.” She presses a hand to the small of her back, wincing slightly. “The baby’s decided my spine is a personal enemy tonight.”

I guide her toward the bedroom without asking, and she lets me, too tired to argue. I have her sit on the edge of the bed while I work my thumbs into the muscles along her lower back, applying slow pressure exactly where she needs it.

“You’re good at this,” she says, voice already softening.

“I’ve had practice. You complain about the same three spots most nights.”

“I do not complain.”

“You narrate your discomfort in vivid detail. It’s not quite complaining, but it’s adjacent.”

“There’s a difference.”