Volkov

Chapter 6

I groaned as my phone buzzed against the nightstand, dragging me from a deep and much-needed sleep. Blindly reaching for it, I squinted at the bright screen.

Rahima:
Come over. NOW. I'm craving pancakes and emotional support.

I sighed, flopping back against my pillows. It wasn't even 8 a.m., and after the week I'd had, all I wanted was a lazy morning in bed. But Rahima had been quick to claim her "pregnant privilege" card since the moment she found out she was expecting, and there was no getting out of it.

Me:
Give me an hour. I need coffee first.

Thirty minutes later, I was in my Jeep, wearing leggings, a hoodie, and oversized sunglasses. I hadn't even bothered to properly fix my curls, just tying them into a loose bun as I pulled up to Rahima's house.

She opened the door almost instantly, her curls bouncing as she greeted me with a wide grin. Behind her, Jonathan was lounging in the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of coffee and looking as laid-back as always. With his tall, athletic frame, warm brown skin, and neatly trimmed beard, Jonathan had a calm, steady energy that balanced Rahima's whirlwind personality.

"Morning, Rae," he said with a chuckle. "You're here on official pancake duty, I take it?"

"Apparently," I muttered, stepping inside. I gave him a quick side hug before turning my attention to Rahima. "And you couldn't let me sleep in, could you?"

She laughed, rubbing her barely-there baby bump dramatically. "Sleep is overrated. Plus, I'm pregnant. I deserve pancakes, okay?"

Jonathan kissed her forehead and smiled. "She's been talking about pancakes all morning. Good luck with that. I'll be in the office if you need me."

"Smart man," I called after him as he disappeared down the hall.

The house was as cozy as ever, smelling faintly of vanilla candles with soft jazz playing in the background. Rahima's living room was filled with warm colors, fluffy blankets, and framed pictures from her wedding.

"So, where are these pancakes you were demanding?" I asked, tossing my bag onto the couch.

"About that..." Rahima bit her lip and gave me her best innocent little sister look. "I was hoping you would make them. You know I can't cook worth a damn."

I sighed, shaking my head. "Fine. But only because your child deserves good pancakes."

"Best sister ever," she declared, flopping onto the couch and rubbing her stomach. "And I mean that literally."

As much as I wanted to be annoyed, I couldn't help but relax as I got to work in the kitchen. Cooking always had that effect on me. Plus, Rahima's antics—though exhausting—were a welcome distraction from the stress I'd been drowning in at work all week.

An hour later, we were sitting on the couch with plates in hand, laughing at a Netflix comedy special. Rahima had propped her feet up on a pillow, looking completely content as she demolished a stack of pancakes.

"So," she said casually, breaking the lull in conversation, "how was last night with Cynthia and Sade? You seemed... tense when you left."

"Me? Tense?" I poured more syrup onto my plate. "You're imagining things."

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes. "We all saw how you shut down when we mentioned Maksim. Don't even try to deny it—you've got something for that man."

"Rahima." I shot her a warning look. "He's my boss. That's it. End of story."

She raised an eyebrow. "And yet, your face is saying something completely different."