That evening, Ruslan was in an unusually buoyant mood. He personally cooked a lavish dinner, setting the table with care. Then, kneeling before my wheelchair, he massaged my legs and feet, the gesture dripping with pretense.
For a fleeting moment, as I watched his gentle, almost cautious demeanor, a part of me wavered. Could the events of this morning have been nothing more than a cruel illusion? But the moment he opened his mouth, reality struck me like a sharp slap.
“Aurelle, given your condition, having children isn’t possible,” he began, his tone tentative yet calculated. “What if we adopted instead?”
His words pierced through me, and my expression turned icy. Seeing the shift in my demeanor, he panicked, pulling me into a desperate embrace.
“Aurelle, did I upset you?” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “Don’t scare me like this. If it’s too much, I won’t mention it again. We can wait until you feel better, okay?”
His nervous attempts to console me only deepened the chasm between us. While he may have temporarily dropped the subject, the resolve in his eyes told me his mind was already made up.