"No."
"Francesca, open the door or I'm breaking it down."
Silence. Then the lock clicks.
When I push it open, she's sitting on the closed toilet lid, her hands raw and red from scrubbing. Her face is wet—from the sink water or tears, I can't tell.
I kneel in front of her, careful of my shoulder.
"Talk to me."
"What do you want me to say?" She looks at me, and her eyes are haunted. "That I'm okay with what I just saw? That watching you murder all those people doesn't bother me? That seeing you strangle someone while I just sat there is fine?"
"I got you out."
"I know." She closes her eyes. "That's what makes it worse. You killed all those people to save me, and part of me is grateful, and part of me is horrified, and I don't know which part to listen to."
"Listen to the part that knows you're alive."
"I'm a nurse, Luca. I save lives. I don't..." She gestures helplessly. "I don't know how to be with someone who takes them. I don't know how to process what I just saw."
"You knew what I was."
"Knowing and seeing are different." She opens her eyes. "I can't unsee that. I can't unknow what you're capable of. And I can't... I can't pretend that this is normal."
I take her raw hands in mine, gentle. "Then don't pretend. Choose knowing everything. Seeing everything. Choose anyway."
"I already chose." Her voice breaks. "In that warehouse, when you told me to run, I chose you. I'm just trying to figure out how to live with that choice."
I pull her into my arms, carefully, giving her the option to pull away. She doesn't. She leans into me, her face pressed against my good shoulder and starts to cry.
Not quiet tears, but full-body sobbing—the kind that shakes you to your core, the kind that comes from terror and relief and trauma all hitting at once.
I hold her while she breaks, my hand stroking her hair, not saying anything because there's nothing to say that will make this better.
When the crying finally slows, she pulls back, wiping her face.
"I need to sleep," she says. "I need to close my eyes and not see... all of that."
"Come on."
I lead her to the bedroom. The room is sparse—just a bed, a dresser, a window with cheap blinds. She lies down fully clothed, curling on her side.
I lie down behind her, careful not to crowd her. She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't lean into me either.
"I love you," she says into the darkness. "I need you to know that. Even after everything I just saw, I love you."
"I love you too."
"But I'm not okay. Not yet."
We lie there in silence, her breathing gradually evening out. I think she's falling asleep when she shifts, turning to face me in the darkness.
"Luca?"
"Yeah?"
"I need..." She pauses, and I feel her hand find my chest, fingers spreading over my heart. "I need to feel alive. I need to feel something other than fear and blood and?—"
