Page 121 of Mile High Daddy

I hang up before he can say anything else, sliding my phone back into my pocket.

26

LILA

Mikhail doesn’t leave my side.

Not when I get dressed. Not when the doctor gives me final instructions. Not when I’m wheeled out of the hospital in a chair I insist I don’t need.

And definitely not when we get home.

I half expect him to disappear into another room once we step inside, to give me space like he usually does. But instead, he guides me straight to bed, his hands firm but careful on my waist.

“You need to rest,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind.

I roll my eyes. “I’ve been resting all day.”

He just gives me a look, the kind that shuts down any argument before it starts.

So I let him tuck me in. Let him fuss.

And I pretend I don’t feel my chest ache at how gentle he is.

I expect him to go back to business as usual, to sit in the living room brooding over his phone, to pace by the windows like he always does when he’s thinking too much.

But instead—he stays.

And I mean,he really stays.

The next morning, I wake up to the smell of something shockingly edible. When I drag myself into the kitchen, Mikhail is at the stove, frowning at a pan like it personally offended him.

“You’re cooking?” I ask, blinking at the sight.

He doesn’t look at me, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. “I was told you need a proper meal. I don’t trust you to take care of yourself.”

I snort, lowering myself onto one of the bar stools. “And you’re suddenly a chef?”

“I’m more capable than you think,kiska.”

I don’t believe that for a second. But then he sets a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, toast, and even sliced fruit—and I can’t deny it looks…good.

When I take a bite, my eyes widen slightly.

“It’s…edible,” I admit.

He smirks, finally sitting down across from me. “High praise.”

That’s how the weekend goes.

Mikhail stays close, making sure I eat, drink water, rest—all while pretending he’s not hovering. He massages my swollenfeet without me asking. He adjusts pillows behind my back before I even realize I need them.

And every time I wake up in the middle of the night, uncomfortable or just restless, I find him already awake, watching me like he’s waiting for me to ask for something.

I don’t.

But somehow, he always knows anyway.

I sit on the couch,curled under a blanket, sipping tea. Mikhail sits at the other end, his phone in hand, but his eyes are on me.

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