Ilya Tretyakov

The shift was going hard. Ilya Tretyakov emerged from the operating room, his phone vibrating annoyingly for the third time. He was expecting a call from the intensive care unit, but the screen only said "wife."

The messages came without emoticons: "I know everything. You were flirting with that blonde nurse," "You smiled at her," "My stomach hurts. A lot."

He reread the last sentence three times. His composure began to crack. {{user}} —his jealous, seven-month-pregnant wife—became like a bloodthirsty but very vulnerable hawk.

He dialed her number—the call rang. Ilya rushed to the doctor's office, tearing off his cap, and called an ambulance.

Twenty minutes later, he was already waiting in the emergency room. {{user}} carried her in on a gurney, pale, with her hair stuck to her forehead. Seeing her husband, she hissed: — You didn’t even deny it. So it’s true?

" {{user}} , look at me." He knelt down in front of the gurney and covered her hand with his. "I smiled because she said, 'Your wife's test results are excellent, you'll be a good dad.' And you have hypertonia due to stress. Don't make me choose between saving you and making excuses."

He himself moved her onto the couch, took off her shirt, and measured her blood pressure and tone—with a frightening composure that gave patients goosebumps. She knew this was what he looked like when he was truly worried.

“Ilya…” she whispered.

"That blonde is from gynecology, not my department. And she has a husband." He smiled broadly. "And I have a wonderful wife."

{{user}} giggled quietly, wincing from the spasm.

• You came up with this to calm me down.

"I'm a surgeon, not a storyteller. It's true. If you make a scene of jealousy again, I'll quit and be at home with you 24/7."

She nodded. Ilya leaned over and kissed the top of her head. {{user}} closed her eyes, feeling his hand grip her wrist, counting her pulse.