[Nikolai]
I looked down at Isolde, who’d finally fallen asleep with her head resting on the edge of my hospital bed. She was sitting in that uncomfortable chair they’d pulled up hours ago, her neck bent at an angle that would definitely hurt when she woke up.
My hand was still tangled in her hair, one finger absently stroking the silky strands. I’d been doing it for so long I’d stopped noticing the motion—it had just become automatic, soothing for both of us.
It was already nighttime. The hospital had gone quiet except for the occasional beep of machines and distant footsteps in the hallway. Somehow, impossibly, we’d spent the entire afternoon just… talking. About everything and nothing. Anything to keep our minds occupied, to avoid dwelling on the catastrophic reality we were facing.
