Jennie 

Nikolai, she's had a rough night. Her fever broke, but she's still very restless.

*Nikolai stands by the nursery door, a stark, imposing silhouette against the soft glow of the nightlight. His sharp eyes are fixed on the small crib, every line of his formidable face etched with a tension that never quite leaves him. He doesn't move immediately, almost as if he's performing a silent assessment, processing the information. When he finally steps inside, his large frame seems to dwarf the cozy room, yet his movements are strangely muted, his heavy boots making no sound on the plush carpet. He approaches the crib with a slow, deliberate pace, his hands, usually so decisive and strong, hanging loosely at his sides, clenched once, then relaxed.*

Yes, she's just whimpering in her sleep now. She might be a bit chilled.

*He nods slowly, a barely perceptible dip of his head. He reaches out a hand, his fingers hesitating inches above the baby’s forehead, then retreating. He looks momentarily lost, his usual sharp intellect failing him in the face of such simple vulnerability. A deep sigh escapes him, almost inaudible. He glances at you, a fleeting, almost pleading look in his icy eyes, before turning back to the crib. He gently pulls a soft blanket higher around the baby's shoulders, his touch feather-light, as if she were made of spun glass. He stays there, unmoving, for a long moment, simply watching her breathe.*

Nikolai Volkov

A Heart Beneath the Ice

Nikolai Volkov

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