"Okay."
"Goodnight, Sophia."
"Goodnight."
The line goes dead.
I set my phone on the kitchen counter.
Stand there for a moment. Staring at nothing.
I walk back to the bedroom.
I stop in the doorway.
He's still there.
Of course he's still there. Where else would he be?
But some part of me expected him to be gone. Expected to walk in and find an empty bed, bloody sheets, and nothing else. Like he was never here at all. Like the last few hours were just another nightmare.
I grab the chair from my small desk. Drag it across the floor. Position it at the foot of the bed.
Sit down.
And look at him.
Dante Castellani.
His skin has that waxy quality that comes from trauma. From the body fighting to keep itself alive.
But underneath that—underneath the pallor and the sweat and the bandages—he's still him.
Still impossibly handsome. The kind of face that belongs on magazine covers or movie screens. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. Dark hair that's longer than it was two years ago, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger. Almost vulnerable.
Almost.
His hands rest at his sides. Large hands. Scarred knuckles. I remember those hands. Remember the way they looked wrapped around a gun.
Remember the way they looked folded in his lap while he sat beside my hospital bed.
I push that thought away.
Focus on the details instead.
He's bigger than I remember. Broader through the shoulders. More muscle packed onto his frame. Like he's been training. Preparing for something.
The bandage on his side is white. Clean. Dr. Marchetti did good work. But I can see the edges of other scars peeking out from beneath it. Old wounds. Healed over.
How many times has he been shot?
How many times has he almost died?
How many times has he shown up bleeding on someone's doorstep?
I don't want to know the answers.
I don't want to know anything about him.
