"Two days."
"He should be stable by then. If everything goes well."
If.
Dr. Marchetti moves toward the door. Pauses. Looks back at me.
"You did good," he says. "Keeping pressure on the wound. Keeping him warm. A lot of people would have panicked."
I did panic. I'm still panicking. But I don't say that.
"Thank you," I say instead.
He nods. Opens the door. Steps into the hallway.
"Two pills, twice a day," he says over his shoulder. "Don't forget."
Then he's gone.
I stand in my living room. Alone.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the clock on my wall ticking. Can hear the faint sound of traffic from the street below. Can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I look down at my notepad.
Antibiotics. Pain meds. Wound care. Signs of infection. No showers. Lots of water.
I'm going to take care of him.
The realization settles over me like a weight.
I didn't ask for this.
I didn't ask for him to show up at my door bleeding. Didn't ask for him to collapse in my hallway. Didn't ask for any of this.
Two years. Two years I've spent rebuilding my life. Building something normal. Something safe. Something that doesn't involve men with bullet holes and doctors who don't ask questions and blood on my floors.
And now he's here. In my bed. In my apartment. In my life.
I hate him.
The thought rises up sharp and sudden. I hate him for showing up. For bleeding on my floor. For making me call Sophia. For dragging me back into a world I've spent two years trying to escape.
I hate him for sitting at my hospital bed for days and then leaving when I told him to.
I hate him for leaving.
I hate him for coming back.
I look at the bedroom door. Closed. Silent.
He's in there. Unconscious. Helpless. Completely dependent on me.
And I can't say any of this. Can't scream it. Can't throw things. Can't demand answers.
Because he's unconscious. Because he almost died. Because I'm the one who saved him.
I saved him.
