When she leaves, Luca stands and stretches, wincing at the stiffness in his back. "You should have gone home," I say quietly. "You didn't have to stay all night."
He looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "I told you I wasn't leaving."
"I know, but?—"
"Giulia." He cuts me off, his voice firm. "I wasn't leaving. Stop trying to give me an out."
I don't know what to say to that, and I don't know if I should let myself believe this means something. So I just nod.
Dr. Martinez discharges me with instructions to rest and avoid strenuous activity, and call immediately if the bleeding returns or the cramping gets worse. Luca listens to every word and asks questions about what's normal and what's not, what he should watch for, when we should be concerned, like he's planning to monitor me himself.
The drive home is the opposite of last night. He’s careful, taking turns slowly and avoiding potholes. He drives like I'm made of glass.
"I'm not going to break," I say when we're halfway home.
"I know." But he doesn't speed up.
When we get to the brownstone, he comes around to help me out of the car, even though I'm perfectly capable of walking.
"I can?—"
"Let me." It's not a request. So I let him help me up the front steps, his hand steady at my elbow, his body close enough that I can feel his warmth. I try not to think about how much I like it or how good it feels when he guides me to the couch in the living room.
"Sit. I'll get you water and something to eat."
"Luca, I'm fine. I can?—"
"Sit, Giulia." His voice is firm. "Please."
My heart turns over in my chest, and I sit.
He disappears into the kitchen, and I hear him moving around—opening cabinets, running water, the clink of dishes. When he comes back, he's carrying a tray with water, crackers, sliced fruit, and ginger tea. "You need to eat," he says, setting it on the coffee table. "Doctor's orders."
I pick up a cracker and take a small bite, and something in his shoulders relaxes. It feels almost... normal. And he doesn’t leave. I expect him to make an excuse—work to do, calls to make, a reason to be anywhere but here. But he stays. He brings me a blanket when I curl up on the couch and asks if I need more water. He checks on me every twenty minutes like he's afraid I'll start bleeding again if he looks away.
"You don't have to babysit me," I say finally. "I'm okay."
"I know." But he doesn't leave.
Around noon, my phone buzzes with a text from Romeo.
Romeo:How are you feeling? Luca said you had a scare last night.
I glance at Luca, who's reading something on his phone but clearly paying attention to me. "You told Romeo?"
"He's your brother. He deserves to know." His voice is matter-of-fact. "I told him you're fine. That the baby's fine. But he wanted to hear it from you."
I text Romeo back, assuring him I'm okay, that it was just a scare, that everything's fine now. He responds immediately:Good. Rest. Let Luca take care of you.
The words make something twist in my chest.Let Luca take care of you.Like it's a given. Like it's what Luca should do, because he’s my husband, as if this is anything resembling a normal marriage.
I look at him, and he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "What?"
"Nothing." He looks back at his phone. "Just making sure you're okay."
—
Over the next few days,something shifts. Luca comes home earlier. Not at midnight or one in the morning, but at six or seven in the evening. Sometimes even earlier. He doesn't hide in his room anymore or avoid the common areas of the house. He sits in the living room while I read, doing something on his tablet or watching television. On the third night after we came back from the hospital, he asked if I wanted dinner.
