"I've had worse."
"That's not what I asked."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, it hurts. But not as much as it could have."
I study the bandages on his shoulder, looking for signs of bleeding or infection. "Dr. Castellano said you needed antibiotics. Did you take them?"
"Not yet."
"Enzo." I give him a look that I hope conveys both affection and exasperation. "You got shot saving someone's life. The least you can do is take care of yourself properly."
"Is that an order?"
The question catches me off guard. "I... no. I don't give you orders. That's not how this works, is it?"
"I don't know. We're still figuring out how this works."
Right. This. Us. Whatever we are now.
I get up and find the prescription bottle on the bedside table, along with a glass of water. "Here. Please?"
He takes the pills without argument, and I realize this might be the first time I've ever seen him be compliant about anything. It's strangely intimate, this small act of letting me take care of him.
"Are you hungry?" I ask. "I could make breakfast."
"You don't need to wait on me, Madison."
"I'm not waiting on you. I'm taking care of you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." I sit back down, close enough to touch him but not quite doing it. "Taking care of someone is a choice. Waiting on them is an obligation."
"And which one do you plan to do?"
"Take care of you. When you need it. When you'll let me."
He reaches for my hand with his uninjured arm, threading our fingers together. "And the rest of the time?"
"I guess we figure that out as we go."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I try to process the surreal domesticity of this scene. Making sure he takes his medication, offering to cook breakfast. It feels so normal, so mundane. Nothing like what I expected the morning after choosing a life of violence and criminality would feel like.
"What happens now?" I ask finally.
"Now you rest. Recover from last night. Let yourself adjust to the reality of what you've chosen."
"And you?"
"I heal. Handle the cleanup from last night. Make sure there are no repercussions that could threaten you."
"What kind of repercussions?"
"The Palermo crew had friends. Associates who might want revenge, or who might see last night as an opportunity to move into territory they think is weakened."
The casual way he discusses potential retaliation makes my stomach flutter with anxiety. "Are we in danger?"
"You're safe. I'll make sure of that."
