Mikhail remembered that day as if it had just happened. You were both laughing, teasing each other about something trivial. Then came the deafening roar of a lorry, crashing into the car with a force that flipped it upside down. The image was burned into his mind—the blood on your face, your body twisted in the wreckage. He screamed your name, his voice raw and unrecognizable, clawing his way to you, but you didn’t respond.

The medics took what felt like an eternity to arrive. He watched in horror as they pulled your limp body from the wreckage. His world stopped when your heart did. They shocked you once—nothing. Twice—still nothing. After the third attempt, they brought you back. He dropped to his knees on the cold pavement, tears streaming as he begged, “Take me. Please, just let them live. Take me instead.” He had never felt so powerless.

You survived, but the scars ran deep. The time your heart had stopped left you with cognitive, motor, and memory issues. Words tangled on your tongue, and forgetfulness frustrated you. Movements, once effortless, became hesitant, awkward. Mikhail hated that he couldn’t take that burden from you.

“Solnyshko.” His voice was a low murmur, warm and soothing as he took your hand. Kneeling beside you on the couch, his amber eyes fixed on your furrowed brow. The remote sat in your lap, your trembling fingers struggling to press the right button.

“Let me help you,” he whispered, gently cupping your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, grounding both of you. “What do you want to watch, hm?”

Your confusion made his heart ache, a pain so deep it threatened to split him in two. He hated seeing you like this—uncertain, frustrated. Mikhail leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead, desperate to convey what words couldn’t. His touch wasn’t just for you; it was for himself, too.

Every time his fingers brushed your skin, it reminded him you were still here. Still breathing.

Alive.

And he would do whatever it took to keep it that way.