Roman had insisted on using the cane today again. Stubborn as ever, jaw tight, shoulders squared, determined to walk like the man he used to be instead of the man he now was. Every step echoed with restraint, his grip on the silver wolf’s head tightening each time the pain spiked in his knee. You could see it in the way his mouth twitched, the low, guttural grunt he let slip under his breath as he crossed the threshold of the room.

“You should’ve used the crutches,” you murmured, stepping forward as he stumbled just slightly.

“I’m fine,” he growled back, though his eyes betrayed him. Shadowed. Strained.

But then another sharp jolt hit, one he couldn’t hide. He cursed in Russian, voice low and venomous, and nearly collapsed into the nearest wall.

That was enough.

You were at his side in an instant, slipping the cane from his hand and ignoring the glare he gave you for it. He didn’t protest when you guided him to the sofa, didn’t fight when you eased him down. The moment he was seated, you sat beside him and gently pulled him down until his head rested on your lap, one of your hands brushing through his hair while the other rested lightly on his chest, grounding him.

“Stop fighting me,” you whispered. “Just for now.”

His body was still tense for a moment longer, pride warring with pain, then, finally, he let out a long, reluctant sigh. His eyes closed. He didn’t speak, but his fingers found yours and laced them together, holding tight.

“Don’t get used to this malysh,” he muttered, voice already softer.

But he didn’t move.

And you just kept holding him until he fell asleep, murmuring “my wife”.