“Call if anything changes,” Rett says, gaze lingering on Zoe’s pale face. “Anything at all.”
I nod, already settling into the armchair we’ve positioned beside her bed. “I will.”
But they don’t leave.
They just stand there in the doorway, a silent, indecisive trio. Tristan shoves his hands in his pockets, his usual easy energy replaced by a heavy, anxious stillness. Dane’s gaze is fixed on Zoe’s IV drip, his jaw tight, as if he’s mentally calculating every drop.
It’s Rett who finally breaks the spell, but even he seems to struggle with it. He takes a half-step back, then stops. “We’ll be in the living room,” he says, the words meant for me, but his eyes are still on her.
He finally turns, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. The grip is firm, a silent transfer of shared, desperate hope. Then he’s gone, pulling the door almost closed behind him, leaving just a sliver of light from the hallway.
And then it’s just us. Just me and the woman who has somehow become the center of our universe.
She looks so small in the large bed. Dane had brushed her dark hair back from her face, letting it fall in a smooth, dark sweep against the pale white pillows. The claiming marks on her neck are still visible, but they’ve faded to a dull red, no longer the vibrant, healthy color they should be. The bond is dying. Our connection to her is slipping away with each passing hour.
“Not if I can help it,” I murmur, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Her skin is still too warm, too dry. Time for another dose of the medication the doctor prescribed. I measure it carefully into a syringe, then connect it to the IV line in her arm, pushing the plunger with slow, even pressure.
“There you go, cariño,” I whisper. “This will help with the fever.”
She doesn’t respond, lost in the deep sleep that has claimed her since we brought her home. But that’s okay. I don’t need her to hear me. I just need her to feel me here, to know on some level that she’s not alone. That she’ll never be alone again, if I have anything to say about it.
I settle back in the chair, picking up a book. It’s one of hers. A comprehensive history of Renaissance art that’s seen better days, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared.
“Let’s see what we have here,” I say, opening to a random page. “Ah, Botticelli. I have a feeling you’d approve.”
I begin to read aloud, keeping my voice low. I’m not an expert on art, not like Zoe is, but I do my best with the pronunciations, stumbling occasionally over the more obscure Italian names.
“‘The Birth of Venus,’“ I read, “‘painted in the mid-1480s, depicts the goddess Venus arriving at the shore after her birth, when she had emerged from the sea fully-grown.’”
I continue reading, the unfamiliar words of art history feeling strange in my mouth at first, then becoming a kind of rhythm. Iread about brushstrokes and something called chiaroscuro, about pigments ground from precious stones.
With every page, a new piece of her clicks into place. I see the passion that drives her, the deep love for beauty and history that is the core of who she is. And the thought of that fire being dimmed by this fever... it makes me read a little louder, a little steadier, as if my voice alone can keep it burning.
When dinner time approaches, I reluctantly set the book aside.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Just going to get you something to eat.”
In the kitchen, my hands move on their own, a memory passed down from my abuela. I don’t think; I just do. The rhythmic thump of my knife against the cutting board as I mince ginger and garlic. The soft sigh of vegetables hitting hot olive oil in the bottom of the stockpot.
I’m making soup. Not from a can or a box. Real soup.
I sear the chicken, deglaze the pan with white wine, add the water that will become a rich, golden broth. I move through the motions, my worry and my fear channeled into this simple, honest act. A pinch of precious saffron threads, staining the broth a beautiful sunrise yellow. A bright squeeze of lemon. A handful of fresh, chopped cilantro at the very end.
It’s a prayer in a pot. A quiet plea to whatever gods might be listening: Let her be well. Let her be whole.
I ladle the clear broth into a bowl and carry it back to her room. The sight that greets me makes my heart give a hard, hopeful thump against my ribs.
She’s stirring, her head turning slightly on the pillow. The first real movement I’ve seen in hours.
“Zoe?” I set the tray down on the nightstand, perching on the edge of the bed. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelashes flutter, a small frown creasing her forehead. “Mmm,” she murmurs, the sound barely audible.
“I’m here,” I say, reaching for her hand. It’s still too warm,but her fingers curl weakly around mine, and the gesture feels like a victory. “I brought you some soup. Think you can try a little?”
Her eyes open slightly, just enough for me to see a sliver of brown. They’re glazed with fever, unfocused, but they find my face and linger there.
“Diego?” she whispers, her voice a dry, brittle thing.
