Not being treated like something worth saving.
Like something... valued.
Vincenzo rose to his full height.
He didn’t step back. Didn’t turn away immediately.
He just stood there.
Watching me.
His gaze was intense—sharp enough to feel like it pressed against my skin, yet something beneath it felt different.
He was seeing me.
Not as a liability. But as something else entirely.
Something he couldn’t quite name.
His chest rose and fell a fraction faster than normal.
The painkillers were finally beginning to take hold.
Not enough to erase the pain—but enough to dull its edges.
My body felt heavy.
My hands rested loosely in my lap.
My bare feet pressed against the cold, scuffed concrete.
I couldn’t make myself look up.
Couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
Not after the gentleness.
Not after the care.
Not after the way his hands had moved over my skin like I was something fragile—something worth protecting—instead of the problem he kept insisting I was.
I kept my head lowered.
Watching the faint lines in the floor.
For him to leave.
For the door to open.
For the silence to return.
But the sound I expected never came.
Instead—I heard movement.
Vincenzo walked across the room—not toward the door—but to the wall-mounted phone.
An old landline.
