“Well, good afternoon to you too,signordottore.”
Rossi sets his medical bag on the chair and crosses to the bed, as Vin fully wakes up and sits up for the examination.With impersonal efficiency, Dr. Rossi removes the old bandages, cleans up the stitches, and puts on a fresh bandage.
Vin tolerates it, but under the blanket, he slides his hand to my thigh and grips me tightly, grimacing. I pat his hand gently without drawing the attention of Dr. Rossi and give him a small smile. He grips me tighter, staring at my mouth.
“These are healing well,” Dr. Rossi says. He presses two fingers along the bruised ridge of Vin’s ribcage and Vin’s jaw tightens but he says nothing. “Any difficulty breathing?”
“No.”
“Sharp pain on deep inhalation?”
“No.”
“Dizziness when you stand?”
“A little.”
I glance at him, my smile frozen. That’s new information. Vin notices, and rubs my thigh.
“I’m okay, Soph,” he says softly. “I promise.”
Dr. Rossi makes a note, and then turns back to me with a measured look.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Ms. Bellamorte, you did not allow me to examine you after the explosion, and you do not appear to be—”
“I’m fine. Vin needs you right now.”
“Vin,” Dr. Rossi says, without looking at him, “is stable. His wounds are clean, his vitals are good, and he will be insufferable for the next three weeks regardless of anything either of us does.”
Vin chuckles, and I roll my eyes. That’s probably true.
“Sophie.” Vin’s voice is rough like sandpaper. “Do it. For me. Please.”
Please.
In the past few weeks, I’ve heard ‘please’ from him more times than I can count. Before that? Never. Not once.
“Fine,” I say. “But keep it brief. I don’t want him left alone.”
**
Dr. Rossi examines me in the sitting room off the bedroom with the door open so Vin can listen in.
Dr. Rossi checks my blood pressure twice, frowning at the second reading the same way he frowned at the first, and asks me a series of questions.
When is the last time I slept more than four hours consecutively? Have I been drinking water? When is the last time I ate a full meal rather than just tasting things while I cooked them?
I open my mouth, and he raises a hand to stop me.
“Not a taste,” he clarifies. “A meal. Sitting down. At a table.”
I close my mouth.
He nods and produces a small kit from his bag. “I’d like to run some blood work, a few standard panels. Confirm my assumptions.”
