He is choosing his words carefully, the way a man does when he is walking across a line he promised himself he would nevercross. “I am not good at this. Sitting still. Waiting. Feeling like I cannot do a damn thing to fix it.”
His voice is steady, but there’s a roughness beneath it. Not grief—he never shows grief. Something else. Something tightly contained.
A silence settles between us, heavy enough that it presses against my skin.
“I’ve seen a lot of things,” he goes on, slower now, “and I’ve learned to keep distance where it’s needed.” His thumb moves once over the back of my hand—a deliberate motion, small but unmistakable. “Lines help. They keep things clean.”
Another pause. Longer this time. I can’t tell if he’s searching for words or trying to swallow the ones he shouldn’t say.
“But there are moments…” His breath leaves him in a thin exhale. “Moments that don’t care about lines.”
My mind flickers, trying to grasp meaning through the fog. Here—in this half-world—every sound feels too sharp, every silence too loud. I don’t know if I’m hearing him clearly or if my fading consciousness is filling in the gaps.
He doesn’t say anything else for a long while. When he finally speaks again, his tone has returned to the calm, disciplined cadence I know.
“You scared us,” he murmurs.
There's the slightest shift before he adds, barely audible:
“Even me.”
The words land—quiet, heavy, undeniable.
A truth,or a trick of the mind. A slip, or nothing at all.
The words sink deep, heavier than anything else he has said. My chest tightens. My mind fights through the fog, reaching for that warmth.
Something inside me stirs.
A tingling runs down my arm, into my fingertips. For a moment, I am not sure if it is real or imagined. Then my index finger twitches. Just once. Small. But definite.
His breath catches.
“Bea?”
I drag in air that feels like swallowing glass. My lungs burn, clawing their way back into existence. A dry rasp tears its way out of my throat. It hurts to breathe but the pain is proof that I am here.
The brightness slams into my eyes when I force them open. The ceiling is all white and hard edges. The room smells like antiseptic and something metallic beneath it. The air is too cold on my skin, which feels damp and fragile.
I blink until the light stops stabbing. When my vision clears, Valerio is right there at the side of the bed, frozen mid-breath, his hand still wrapped around mine like a lifeline he is afraid to lose.
His eyes are wide, shock carved into every line of his face. He looks nothing like the unshakeable second-in-command I am used to. He looks like a man who has been staring at a door he thought might never open.
“You are awake,” he says. It is not elegant, not smooth, just honest.
I try to nod. The movement is small, but it is enough. Tears sting as they gather in my eyes, the emotion too big for a body that feels too weak. My throat burns when I try to speak, so instead I squeeze his hand as hard as my strength will allow.
He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh and a sob tangled together.
“The doctors… they pulled you back,” he says, breath shaking. “They warned the next forty-eight hours are critical, but waking up means your system is responding.”
Relief roughens his words. For a second, I think he might actually lift my hand to his forehead, but he stops himself. I see the exact moment the walls he always carries start sliding back into place.
He loosens his hold on me slowly, like unclenching a fist that has been tight for too long.
“If I squeeze any harder, Matteo will accuse me of trying to break you,” he jokes quietly, giving himself an excuse to let go. It is half a deflection, half a promise.
Our eyes lock. Gratitude. Guilt. Loyalty. And a flicker of something he shuts down fast.
