The younger nurse reached toward my arm, her movements slow, cautious—but her hand shook so badly she nearly dropped the bottle of saline she was holding.
She caught it at the last second.
A small, shaky breath escaped her lips.
The older nurse noticed immediately.
She placed a steadying hand on her colleague’s arm.
A quiet gesture.
Reassuring.
Then she looked at me.
“We were given very clear instructions,” she said.
Her voice remained calm, but there was an undercurrent of something... wary.
Respect, but also awareness.
“Mr. Orsini said you are to be treated with the utmost care.”
A pause.
“No pain, if it can be avoided.”
Another breath.
“No rushing.”
I nodded.
Barely.
The motion cost more effort than it should have.
My throat felt tight. Too dry to form words.
They began working.
The antiseptic stung as it touched my skin—but it didn’t burn the way I expected it to.
Their hands were gentle.
Every movement was controlled.
The younger nurse dabbed at my wounds with hands that still trembled slightly, but her touch softened with each second, as if she were forcing herself to steady.
The older one guided her silently at times.
Correcting. Supporting.
Never rushing.
When they reached the cuts between my thighs—the younger nurse froze for just a moment.
Her cheeks flushed immediately.
