Chapter 20: He Stayed Until Morning

BRABRA

I wake somewhere in the middle of the night to the soft sound of a chair creaking, and for a moment, disoriented in the dark hospital room, I forget where I am entirely.

Then I see him.

Andriy is still there, exactly where he promised he'd be, though he's shifted in the chair, one arm braced against the edge of my bed, his head resting against it, fast asleep. His tie is gone, his sleeves rolled up, his usually immaculate composure completely undone by exhaustion and worry in a way I've only glimpsed once before, in my kitchen at three in the morning.

I watch him for a long moment, something warm and unguarded moving through my chest at the sight of him. A man who once left before sunrise without a word, now refusing to leave a hospital chair even in sleep, his hand still loosely curled near mine on the blanket like he couldn't quite let go even unconscious.

I shift slightly, and he stirs immediately, lifting his head, blinking against the dim light.

"Hey." His voice comes out rough with sleep, but his eyes find mine instantly, sharp with concern despite the exhaustion written plainly across his face. "Are you okay? Do you need the nurse?"

"I'm okay." I reach for his hand, steadier now than it was hours ago. "You didn't have to stay in that chair all night. It looked uncomfortable."

"I've sat through worse in better chairs." A tired, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. "I wasn't going anywhere, Brabra. I told you that."

"I know." I squeeze his hand gently. "I just didn't expect you to actually mean it this literally."

"I meant every part of it." He straightens slightly, wincing at the stiffness in his neck, though he doesn't loosen his grip on my hand even to stretch properly. "How are you feeling? Really."

"Better." I take stock of myself carefully — the dull ache still lingering in my back, the tiredness that clings but no longer swallows me whole the way it did yesterday. "Tired. But steadier. Like myself again, mostly."

"Good." Relief moves visibly through his shoulders. "That's good."

We sit quietly for a while, the hospital settling into its late-night rhythm around us, distant footsteps, the soft beep of machines down the hall, the occasional murmur of a nurse checking in on another room. It's a strange, tender kind of quiet, the two of us wide awake in the dark while the rest of the building sleeps.

"I've been thinking," Andriy says eventually, his thumb moving slowly across my knuckles. "About what happened. About how close it came to being so much worse than it was."

"Andriy."

"Let me finish." His voice is gentle but firm, and I quiet, watching him gather his thoughts with the same careful deliberation he probably uses in every boardroom he's ever walked into. "I know you value your independence. I've watched you fight for it since the day I met you again in that conference room, and I respect it more than I think I've told you. But yesterday terrified me in a way I don't think I've ever been terrified before, and I need you to understand that some of that fear is mine to carry too, not just yours."

"I don't want to be a burden to you," I say quietly, the old fear rising even now, even here. "That's always been the thing I was most afraid of. Becoming someone you have to manage instead of someone you actually want in your life."

"You're not a burden, Brabra." He lifts my hand, pressing his lips to my knuckles the way he has before, slow and certain. "You collapsing yesterday wasn't a failure on your part. It was my reminder that loving someone means sharing the weight, not just admiring how well they carry it alone."

The word loving hangs quietly in the space between us, unplanned, unguarded, and I watch it land on his face the same way it lands on mine — surprise, followed by something that looks a lot like relief that it's finally been said out loud.

"You love me," I whisper, not quite a question.

"I do." He says it simply, without hesitation, like the truth of it has been sitting patiently inside him for longer than either of us realized. "I think I have for longer than I let myself admit. Somewhere between that hallway and this hospital room, it stopped being something I was fighting and started being something I just knew."

Tears gather in my eyes, warm and sudden, and this time I don't try to hide them. "I'm scared to say it back," I admit. "Not because I don't feel it. Because every time I've let myself feel this safe with someone, it's ended badly."

"I can't promise you it won't ever end badly." His voice is steady, honest, no false reassurance dressed up as comfort. "But I can promise you I'm not going anywhere. Not after last night. Not after any of this."

"I love you too," I whisper, the words costing me everything and nothing all at once. "I think I have for a while now. I just didn't know how to trust it."

He leans forward slowly, giving me every chance to pull away if I want to, and when I don't, his lips meet mine, soft and careful, everything that almost happened under that awning finally allowed to finish arriving.

When we part, he rests his forehead gently against mine, both of us smiling in the dim, quiet dark of the hospital room.

"Get some sleep," he murmurs. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

"You'd better be."

"Always," he says, and settles back into the chair beside my bed, hand still wrapped around mine, staying exactly where he promised he would until morning finally arrives.

Morning comes slowly, grey light easing through the blinds until it turns gold, and when I wake fully this time, Andriy is still there, hand still loosely curled around mine, though he's awake now too, watching the sunrise with the kind of quiet stillness I've never once seen from him in any boardroom.

"You really didn't leave," I say, my voice thick with sleep.

"I told you I wouldn't." He turns, and the smile that greets me is soft, unguarded, nothing like the careful composure he wore the day I first saw him again across that conference table. "How do you feel this morning?"

"Hungry," I admit, and he laughs, low and relieved, like the sound of my ordinary complaint is the best thing he's heard in days.

"That's a good sign." He squeezes my hand once before standing, stretching the stiffness from a night spent folded into a chair meant for much shorter visits. "I'll find you something. Don't move."

"I'm attached to an IV, Andriy. I'm not exactly going anywhere."

"Humor me," he says, already at the door, glancing back with a warmth that settles somewhere deep in my chest.

He's barely gone a few minutes when the doctor arrives to check my vitals, nodding approvingly at the numbers on the monitor. "Everything looks steady. We'll get your discharge paperwork started this morning, provided nothing changes. You'll need to take it easy for at least a week. No exceptions."

"I promise," I say, and mean it more than I have any of the times I've said it before.

By the time Andriy returns with a tray of toast and juice from the cafeteria downstairs, my coworker has called twice, her voice thick with relief when I finally answer, promising to visit that evening with a stack of gossip magazines and, in her words, absolutely zero work talk allowed.

"You have people who love you," Andriy says once I've hung up, settling the tray carefully over my lap. "More than you always let yourself believe, I think."

"I'm starting to notice that," I say, glancing at him. "Recently, especially."

We're discharged by early afternoon, the twins' heartbeats confirmed strong one final time before the nurse removes my IV and hands over a folder of instructions Andriy tucks carefully under one arm without being asked.

He drives me home himself, and when we reach my building, he doesn't let me climb the twenty-two stairs alone, one steady arm around my waist the entire way up, patient with every slow, careful step.

"I could get used to this," I admit, a little breathless by the landing, though not entirely from the stairs.

"Good," he says, unlocking my door with the spare key I gave him two days ago without either of us mentioning it out loud. "Because I don't plan on going anywhere."

Inside, he settles me onto the couch with more pillows than I actually need, and I let him fuss over me a while longer, too tired and too warmed by all of it to protest the way I might have months ago.

Outside my window, the city moves on, ordinary and unaware, but inside this small apartment, everything feels different than it did just two days ago — steadier, fuller, held together now by more than just my own stubborn will to keep going.

For the first time since that first painful morning at my kitchen table, I don't feel like I'm simply surviving this.

I feel like I'm finally, quietly, beginning to live it.