A hand on my shoulder. Matteo.
"Isabella," he says quietly. "Come sit in the chair. You can still see him from there."
I don't want to move. Moving means letting go of Enzo's hand and letting go feels impossible, feels like giving up, feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to consciousness and if I let go he might slip away completely.
But Matteo's hand is firm, gentle and insistent, I let him guide me to the chair beside the couch, close enough that I can still reach out, still touch.
I take Enzo's hand again the second I'm seated.
Still cold. Still limp. Still not squeezing back.
The doctor works quickly, cleaning the wound, assessing the damage, his face calm and focused in a way that I want to find reassuring but can't because calm means routine and this shouldn't be routine, Enzo bleeding out shouldn't be something anyone is calm about.
"Talk to me about blood loss," the doctor says.
"Significant," Rafael answers. "We put pressure on it but it didn't slow much until the last ten minutes."
An IV goes into Enzo's arm. Fluids. Antibiotics maybe. I don't know. I can't focus on anything except his face, grey and slack and wrong.
I run my thumb over his knuckles and try to will warmth back into his skin ,to will life back into his body.
"He's stable," the doctor says after what feels like hours but is probably fifteen minutes. "Pulse is weak but steady. Blood pressure is low but not critical. I need to close this wound and get him on fluids, but he's not in immediate danger."
Not in immediate danger.
The words don't process correctly. They should feel like relief, but they just feel like words, empty sounds that don't match the reality of Enzo pale and bleeding and unconscious in front of me.
"Will he wake up?" My voice comes out smaller than I intend.
The doctor glances at me. "Eventually, yes. Right now his body is in shock and trying to compensate for the blood loss. He needs rest. Could be hours before he regains consciousness."
Hours.
Hours of sitting here watching him breathe and waiting and not knowing if he'll wake up the same, if there's damage we can't see, if the wound is hiding something worse underneath.
The doctor keeps working. Stitching. Bandaging. Checking vitals with systematic precision.
I don't let go of Enzo's hand.
Across the room, I can feel Matteo watching me. I've known my brother my whole life and I know when his attention is fixed on something, and right now it's fixed on me.
On the way I'm holding Enzo's hand.
On the way I haven't moved from this chair.
On the way I looked when I saw him covered in blood.
He knows something. Has figured it out. I can feel it in the quality of his silence, in the way he's not asking questions, in the careful neutrality of his expression.
But he doesn't say anything.
And I can’t bring myself to care right now.
The doctor finishes his work and sits back, stripping off his gloves.
"He needs to be monitored closely for the next twenty-four hours," he says, looking at Matteo. "Someone should check on him every two hours. Watch for fever, infection, excessive bleeding. Any changes, you call me immediately."
"I'll do it," I say.
