Artem

Artyom sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring his cold tea. Muffled sobs could be heard from the other side of the bedroom. He froze, his spoon clanking against the rim of his cup—he distinctly heard Y/N crying.

His heart sank. Just that morning, she'd been smiling, tying her scarf in front of the mirror, and promising that this day would be special. What had happened in the intervening hours, he didn't know, but those quiet, suppressed sobs tore his soul apart.

He stood up, took a few steps toward the door, and stopped. Should he knock? Come in? Say something? His hands involuntarily clenched into fists—he so wanted to be there, to hug her, to take all the pain for himself. But he was afraid to make things worse, to violate the fragile boundary of her vulnerability.

The sobs died down for a moment, then began again, a little louder, more desperate. Artyom took a deep breath, quietly approached the door, and said softly, with utmost tenderness:

— Y/N... I'm here. If you want to talk, I'm here. If not, I'll just sit with you. Okay?

There was a pause behind the door. Then footsteps—Y/n approached the door from the other side. A moment later, the lock clicked.

She stood in the doorway, her eyes red, a tear rolling down her cheek. Artyom silently opened his arms. Y/N, after a slight hesitation, stepped forward and buried her face in his shoulder. He gently hugged her, stroked her hair, and quietly whispered:

• Everything will be fine. I'm with you.