All night, probably. Sitting in that chair watching me breathe, making sure I didn't stop.
I need to move. My bladder is making that extremely clear, and lying still is starting to make the ache in my side worse instead of better. I push myself up slowly, careful not to jar the wound, but the movement pulls at the stitches and sends a fresh wave of pain through me that I breathe through with gritted teeth.
Isabella doesn't wake.
I get my feet under me, stand, testing my balance, and the world tilts slightly but holds. Good enough. I move toward the bathroom down the hall, each step deliberate and measured, and I'm aware of exactly how much blood I lost yesterday by howweak my legs feel, how much effort it takes to do something as simple as walking.
The bathroom is a relief in multiple ways.
I take care of necessities and then look at myself in the mirror and immediately wish I hadn't. I look like death. Pale and drawn, dark circles under my eyes, the bandage around my torso white and stark against skin that's gone the particular grey color of significant blood loss. I lift the edge of the bandage carefully and check the wound. Still closed, no fresh bleeding, the stitches holding. It looks angry and inflamed but not infected.
I'll live.
I splash water on my face and try to feel more human but fail completely, and then I make my way back to the sitting room because staying upright much longer seems ambitious.
Isabella is awake.
She's sitting up in the chair now, looking at the empty couch with wide-eyed panic.
"Isabella…" I say quietly.
She turns, sees me and the relief that crosses her face is so naked and unguarded it makes my chest tight.
Fuck, I can’t let her go. I cannot watch her get married to someone else.
It’d kill me… and the person.
Then she's up and moving, I barely have time to brace before she hits me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her face pressing into my chest, and the impact sends pain lancing through my side but I don't care, I wrap my arms around her and hold on.
I take a deep breath despite the pain, her sweet scent fills my nostril and I have to stop myself from physically reacting.
I’ve missed her so much.
"You're okay," she says into my shirt, and her voice is muffled and shaking. "You're okay, you're awake, you're?—"
"I'm okay," I confirm quietly, my hand coming up to cup the back of her head. "I'm right here."
She pulls back just enough to look up at me and her eyes are wet, tears already spilling over, running down her cheeks unchecked.
"I was so scared," she whispers. "There was so much blood and you wouldn't wake up and I thought—" Her voice breaks. "I thought you were going to die."
"I'm not dying." I wipe her tears with my thumb. "I'm too stubborn to die. You know that."
She laughs, watery and genuine, then she pulls my face down to hers and kisses me, I kiss her back, despite the weakness in my legs, despite the fact that we're standing in the sitting room where anyone could walk in.
I kiss her like I'm proving something to both of us.
That I'm alive. That I came back. That I kept my promise.
She tastes like salt and relief, when we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Don't ever do that again," she says fiercely. "Don't ever scare me like that again Enzo, or I’ll kill you."
I chuckle and wince. "I'll try my best."
"That's not good enough."
"It's the best I can offer." I rest my forehead against hers. "I can't promise I won't get hurt. Not in this life. But I can promise I'll always fight like hell to come back to you."
