Warmth slips through me against my will.
"But," he adds, thumb brushing my knuckles, "I’m still your husband. And that makes me responsible for you."
I should correct him. I should remind him what this marriage is. Pretend. Strategy. Instead, my pulse jumps, and I'm surprisingly pleased that he chose me last night. Not for a second do I think this was a macho move because he thought I was more vulnerable than Nico. No, it's the opposite, and he came for me, anyway. That means something.
"We’re only pretending," I manage, though it comes out softer than intended.
He studies me, long, thoughtful, and terrifyingly sincere. "Are we?" he asks.
My stomach drops and soars at the same time. I don’t answer. I can’t.
Before I can summon a lie, Nico’s lashes twitch again, and all of Stephano’s attention snaps toward him like instinct. It's a tiny movement, barely there, but Steph and I both go still, all that restless care burning into focus.
"Hey," he says, keeping his voice soft, the one he reserves for dead-of-night confessions. "Nico. Little brother. You’re safe."
Nico’s brow tightens. His mouth tries a shape and fails. The beep ticks higher, then evens.
"Take your time," I tell him, stroking his wrist with my thumb. "No one’s chasing you in here."
Stephano huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh. "Except her," he says, angling his head at me.
I tilt my chin. "I only chase to make sure you don’t do anything stupid."
"That’s a full-time job," he says.
"Then I expect benefits," I counter.
He leans in and kisses the top of my head like he’s forgotten he’s not supposed to. I let my eyes close for the length of it. My body hums with a traitorous contentment that would mortify past-me. Present-me files it under immediate needs.
Nico’s fingers twitch against mine. His breath changes, deepens, a hitch, a try. His lids lift a fraction, then more. Brown eyes, bleary and confused, find the ceiling, then Steph’s face, then me.
"Ciao, bello," I say gently. "Welcome back."
Steph’s hand tightens around mine, hard enough to be a promise. "Hey," he breathes, his smile breaking open. "It’s me. We’ve got you."
Nico works his mouth. A rasp of sound. "Ste?—"
"Don’t talk," I say. "Show-off later.Breathe now."
His gaze drifts, lands on our joined hands, then back to Steph. A tired, genuine relief loosens his eyes. He blinks slowly, like his body finally begins to trust what his eyes tell him.
Steph looks at me, and for once, there’s nothing ironic in it, just gratitude and something scarier. I tip my head toward the bed.
"Go ahead," I whisper. "Fuss over him, too."
He laughs under his breath, leans down, and presses his forehead to Nico’s for a second, an old ritual I pretend not to notice. When he straightens, his eyes are wet, and he doesn’t apologize.
"Good luck getting rid of me," I echo his words from earlier.
He squeezes my hand. "Not trying."
The monitor beeps on. The morning deepens. I let myself lean into the chair and into Steph’s shoulder. For once, the only plan I need is this one: stay, breathe, keep both the men I inexplicably care about on the right side of living.
Nico blinks, finds me, then Steph, and something like a smile drifts across his mouth. "So… you and my brother?"
Stephano beams, "We’re married."
Nico’s brows tip up. "Either I was in a coma longer than I thought, or you work fast."
