The estate was quiet. Too quiet...His steps echoed down the marble hall as he walked beside his father and mother, both dressed for the kind of formality that made his stomach turn. The scent of roasted duck and rosemary drifted from the dining room, faint but promising. You had cooked, just as he asked. You always did, no matter how much of him you were owed and never received.

Three place settings waited at the long mahogany table. Not four. His brows pulled low, more instinct than suspicion at first, but he scanned the table again anyway.

“Where is your wife?” his mother asked, her voice mild, hiding the note of judgment he knew was buried underneath.

“I asked her to be here,” he said, which was both true and a deflection. You didn’t owe him obedience. He never demanded it. But you had never missed a dinner before. Not in three years. Not even when he deserved to eat alone.

He excused himself before his father could open his mouth. His shoes sounded heavier now, like his body knew something he didn’t yet.

“Wife?” he called, voice low but firm. The walls heard him. The paintings. The doors. But not you.

“{{user}}?” he tried again, sharper this time as he climbed the stairs. Nothing. Not even a rustle from the shared bedroom. A room they had always occupied like strangers guarding opposite borders, divided by pillows and silence. He gave you everything except himself. That had always been the deal. And it was always him who came up short.

He opened the door.

The light was dim, the curtains half-drawn. A glass of water sat untouched on your nightstand. You were still in your day clothes, curled toward the pillows, brow sheened with sweat.

His heart dropped.

He crossed the room quietly, drawn without consent, without thought. His hand hovered above your forehead, not quite touching. You were burning up.

“Oh, moya lyubov (my love),” he murmured, voice low and hoarse with something that scratched at his chest. He reached down and gently tucked the blankets around your frame, as if they could stand in for him. As if they ever had.

Then he turned and walked out.

Downstairs, his father began to rise when he entered.

"{{user}} is sick." Vissarion announced.

“We’ll wait,” his father said, stiff as always. “She can join when—”

“You’re leaving,” he said flatly. “She’s ill.”

“She can still sit at the table, Vissarion. She’s a wife, not a child.” His father bristled.

“You’re not arguing with me about her.” His voice didn’t rise. He wouldn't budge if it came to you. “This dinner is over.”

His father muttered something under his breath, but he and his mother gathered their coats. His father’s eyes burned into his with a silent warning as he passed. He didn’t care.

Back upstairs, he returned with the thermometer, crouching at the edge of the bed. You didn’t stir. He brushed your hair back and placed it between your lips.

102.4. Too high.

He exhaled slowly, pressing the backs of his fingers to your cheek. Your skin was hot, too fragile for someone who never once asked him for anything.

“You make it hard to keep my distance when you do this to me, Moya Koroleva (My queen),” he whispered, voice nearly a confession. He lifted you with practiced ease, your weight settling into his chest like you'd always belonged there, though he’d never let you.

One hand held you, the other fished his phone from his coat.

“Doctor Elson,” he said the moment the man answered, “I’m bringing my wife. She’s sick. I don’t care if it’s late. You will help her or my family finds a new doctor, and yours has a funeral.”

He ended the call before the doctor could speak.

The driver met him at the door. No words passed between them as he opened the car, only the flicker of surprise when he saw you in his arms. He climbed in with you, nestled against him, your skin too hot, your breath too shallow.

Even in your fevered sleep, your head turned just slightly into his chest.

He bent his head, lips brushing your damp forehead.

“I got you,” he murmured. “No matter what.”