XXXIII

Sasha moved through the small kitchen with quiet focus, her movements slow but deliberate. Preparing dinner had become more than just a necessity—it was a ritual that anchored her, a simple, grounding routine in the middle of all the uncertainties surrounding her. The soft sounds of chopping vegetables, the rhythmic bubbling of soup, filled the otherwise still apartment with a sense of normalcy she clung to.

She had been careful, almost meticulous, about her diet lately. Following every bit of advice the doctor had offered, every pamphlet, every whispered suggestion from the older women in town. She wasn't taking any chances. Not with her baby.

But tonight, she added something extra. A small, thoughtful addition—a glass of warm milk resting on the edge of the table. She had read somewhere, perhaps in one of those sleepless nights spent scrolling her phone, that it was good for the baby's development. Full of calcium, comforting, nourishing. It felt like a small gesture, but meaningful. She wanted to give him everything he might need, no matter how small.

After finishing her meal slowly, chewing each bite with care, she didn't forget the final part of her routine. Reaching for the small container of vitamins on the shelf, she swallowed them one by one, the metallic aftertaste familiar by now. Another promise kept, another line on the checklist crossed.

Her body felt heavier than usual as she made her way to bed. The fatigue was different these days—not just physical, but bone-deep, as if every cell in her was working overtime. She welcomed it, though. It meant he was growing. Thriving.

The moment her head sank into the pillow, a soft smile tugged at her lips, almost involuntary. Her hand moved instinctively, finding its way to her belly without conscious thought. She traced the gentle swell, her fingers lingering over the curve that had grown steadily more pronounced over the weeks. A fragile, living reminder that she wasn't alone.

"Baby," she whispered into the dimly lit room, her voice warm and low, tinged with something fragile. "Do you know how happy I am?"

Her fingers stroked the curve gently, her thumb circling a spot just below her ribs. "I love you already. Do you love me too?"

She didn't expect an answer. But then—there it was. A sudden, almost shy press against her palm. A tiny, unmistakable movement.

Sasha gasped softly, her eyes widening in the dark before breaking into a breathless giggle, one hand flying to cover her mouth in disbelief. Her baby. Her baby had kicked. Responded.

Her heart swelled, the weight of emotions crashing over her so quickly it nearly stole her breath. It wasn't the first time she had felt the fluttering movements—they'd started faintly weeks ago—but this... this felt intentional. As if he was answering her.

"You love Mumma too?" she murmured, her voice trembling with wonder. "Aww, my baby…"

Her hand didn't leave her belly as she shifted onto her side, curling around herself protectively. "I can't wait to hold you in my arms," she whispered, eyes glistening, a soft ache blooming in her chest. The loneliness she carried eased, replaced by something fierce, something tender.

A cool breeze swept through the room suddenly, rustling the thin curtains like restless fingers. Sasha's brows furrowed faintly.

**Did I forget to close the window?**

A sigh slipped past her lips as she pushed herself upright, careful but still moving a little too fast, not yet accustomed to the limits her changing body demanded.

The moment she sat up fully, it hit her. A sharp, unexpected jolt of pain shot through her lower belly and radiated toward her back, slicing through the warmth she had been cocooned in.

Her breath caught in her throat, her hand flying instinctively to her stomach. Panic flared hot and immediate, her pulse quickening as she froze, her entire body tensing.

The pain lingered, sharp and persistent, twisting deep inside her. She bit down a small moan, trying to steady her breathing, but the fear was harder to control.

Seconds dragged by like hours. Her other hand gripped the edge of the mattress, white-knuckled, as she waited—prayed—for the pain to subside.

Finally, it ebbed, leaving behind a dull ache that throbbed gently at her lower back. She let out a shaky exhale, her fingers trembling as she lifted her shirt, checking her belly with wide, frantic eyes.

No bleeding. No unusual tightness. Just the soft, reassuring curve beneath her palm.

Relief hit her hard, almost making her dizzy. But beneath it, something else lodged firmly—a sobering realization.

**I can't be careless. Not even for a second.**

Swallowing thickly, she moved more slowly this time, gingerly easing herself to her feet. Every step toward the window was cautious, her hand never straying far from her belly.

She secured the latch tightly, making sure it wouldn't open again. Only when she was certain did she allow herself to return to bed, exhaustion dragging at her limbs.

Settling under the covers, she curled protectively around herself, both hands now resting firmly over her stomach. As if she could shield him from everything—even her own mistakes.

"Sorry, baby," she whispered into the quiet, her voice thick with guilt. "Did I scare you? I didn't mean to."

Another small kick nudged against her palm, almost like reassurance.

Her lips trembled into a smile, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "My brave little one," she breathed, her heart full and aching all at once.

Sleep found her quickly after that, exhaustion and relief washing over her in equal measure. Her hand never left her belly, even as her breaths evened out and the night settled around her.

**Samuel sat awake, staring at a picture of Sasha on his phone.**

His thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the soft curve of her smile like it might bring her closer. The glow of the screen was the only light in the room, casting shadows that felt heavier than they should.

He knew he needed to move on.

He **should** move on.

Everyone around him reminded him of that—quietly, persistently—but his heart clung stubbornly to her.

His parents had been pressuring him lately, gently dropping hints over dinner, suggesting names of potential brides, reminding him that it was time to settle down. They thought he just hadn't found the right girl.

But Samuel knew the truth.

No matter how much he tried to distract himself, to meet someone new, to pretend—he couldn't let go. Not when every fiber of him still ached for Sasha.

And now…

It had only been two weeks since he noticed.

At first, he'd brushed it off, convincing himself it was nothing. Maybe Sasha had simply put on a little weight—after all, stress could do that to anyone.

But as the days crept by, he watched more closely.

The subtle swell of her stomach, the way she held herself protectively, almost unconsciously resting her hand there when she thought no one was looking.

Denial warred with realization.

But eventually, even he couldn't lie to himself anymore.

The gentle curve of her belly wasn't weight gain.

It was unmistakable.

She was pregnant.

Still, some foolish part of him had hoped. Hoped that maybe… maybe there was a chance he was wrong.

So one afternoon, unable to bear the weight of silence, he asked her.

"Are you… expecting?"

He had kept his voice light, casual, as if the question was nothing more than idle curiosity.

Sasha had glanced up from her phone, startled—like she hadn't expected anyone to notice.

Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the device, knuckles paling, before she quickly looked away.

There was a flicker of something in her eyes—fear? Guilt? Pain?

She hesitated just long enough for his heart to stop.

Then, she answered, voice flat.

"Yeah."

No explanation. No emotion.

Just that one word.

It punched the air out of his lungs.

Still, he had smiled. Or at least tried to.

Because what else could he do?

"Congrats," he forced out, though the words felt like shards in his throat.

He swallowed hard, masking the sting with a light tone. "So… what are you hoping for? A boy or a girl?"

Her eyes darted away, and she paused, too long to be casual.

When she spoke, her voice was distant, almost mechanical.

"I just want a healthy baby."

A lie.

He saw it clear as day.

She had an answer, probably one she whispered to herself at night.

But she wasn't willing to share it.

**Not with him.**

He nodded anyway, feigning ease. "That's nice," he murmured, though the tightness in his chest didn't ease.

His fingers tapped against his knee, restless.

"So, when will you apply for maternity leave?" he asked, trying to sound conversational, like it was the most natural question in the world.

Silence.

Sasha's shoulders stiffened, the guarded expression on her face faltering for just a moment, revealing something raw beneath.

Samuel frowned slightly, leaning forward.

"You… are applying, right?"

She exhaled, soft but heavy, the sound weighted.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, lips pressing together tightly before she admitted, voice barely above a whisper,

"I can't."

The word hit him harder than he expected.

His brow furrowed, confusion tightening his features.

"Why not?"

She hesitated, and he watched the way her fingers nervously fidgeted, twisting the hem of her sleeve. Then, in a voice that sounded like it scraped her throat to get out, she confessed,

"I don't have enough money."

His stomach twisted painfully.

She kept her eyes down, like she couldn't bear to look at him.

"I don't know how I'll manage," she continued, her voice cracking on the words. "The baby's expenses, the medical bills… I even looked for another job to work after school, but there's nothing."

Her hands trembled slightly now, and she blinked rapidly, but the tears spilled over anyway.

She didn't bother wiping them away.

Didn't even try to hide them.

Samuel's chest felt like it was caving in, watching her—so strong, always composed—reduced to this quiet, exhausted vulnerability.

He reached quickly into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief, holding it out to her with a small, soft gesture.

"Here," he murmured gently. "Take this."

She didn't move.

Didn't even glance at it.

Her silent tears kept falling, slow and relentless.

His hand tightened on the handkerchief, fingers curling around the fabric.

Trying—desperately—to hold himself together.

He forced a light smile, injecting a teasing lilt into his voice.

"Hey, don't ignore my hanky. It's sensitive, you know. Might get offended."

Still nothing.

His heart sank.

With a quiet sigh, Samuel reached for the glass of water on the table and gently pressed it into her hands.

"Here," he urged softly, voice firmer now.

Her fingers closed around the glass, shaking slightly, and she drank in small, shaky sips, her shoulders still trembling faintly.

When she finally set the glass down, Samuel didn't hesitate.

"Sasha," he said quietly but firmly, meeting her downcast gaze,

"From now on, if you need money, you tell me."

Immediately, she shook her head, the refusal automatic.

"No, I—"

"I'm serious," he cut her off, voice harder now, brooking no argument.

"I'll give it to you. No questions. No conditions. And don't even think about refusing. Your baby needs you to be healthy. You have to take care of yourself."

She swallowed, her throat visibly working, voice barely audible.

"It's too much," she whispered. "I'll manage."

"How?"

His tone was gentle but relentless.

She opened her mouth but no words came.

Her silence said enough.

Samuel leaned forward, eyes dark, voice lowering.

"Sasha… this isn't about pride. It's not about owing anyone."

His voice softened but didn't waver.

"You're going to push yourself until there's nothing left. And you'll hurt yourself in the process. If you won't accept help for yourself… then do it for your baby."

Her lips parted slightly, eyes shimmering.

For a moment, he thought she might bend.

But then, slowly, she shook her head again, wiping at her face with the back of her sleeve.

"I can't take that much from you," she murmured. "I'll pay you back once the baby is born."

His stomach clenched, twisting painfully.

**She doesn't trust me.**

Not enough.

Not in the way he wanted.

Not like she trusted—

He swallowed down the bitter thought, forcing it back into the dark corner of his mind where it belonged.

Samuel nodded, masking the ache behind a practiced calm.

"Alright," he said quietly, voice even. "I won't push. But if you ever change your mind… I'll be here."

Sasha blinked, as if startled by his softness.

Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something more. Something real.

But she didn't.

She just gave a small nod, wiping away the last traces of her tears, her gaze distant once more.

Samuel sat back, letting out a long breath.

The ache in his chest didn't ease.

But if all he could do was sit beside her—even from a distance—

He would.

Even if she never looked at him the way he wished.

Even if she never leaned on him the way she leaned on the shadow of someone else.

He'd stay.

No matter how much it hurt.