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Enzo's eyes go distant, his jaw clenching. "I remember. I heard the gun, felt the impact. I thought...I thought it was over."
His gaze snaps back to mine, intense and searching. "You stayed. You could have run, could have left me to bleed out on the floor. But you didn't."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. I didn't."
"Why?"
The word hangs between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Because...because you saved my life. Because you got hurt protecting me. I couldn't just leave you."
Enzo's eyes bore into mine, dark and fathomless. "Most people would have. Most people would have taken the chance to get as far away from me as possible."
I meet his gaze steadily, my chin lifting. "I'm not most people."
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face, there and gone in an instant. "No. No, you're not."
He shifts on the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at his wound. I reach out instinctively, my hand hovering over his bandaged shoulder. "Careful. You don't want to tear your stitches."
Enzo looks down at the gauze, his eyebrows lifting. "You stitched me up?"
I shrug, heat creeping up the back of my neck. "I took a first aid class when I opened the bakery, just in case a customer got hurt. Never thought I'd actually need to use it, but..."
I trail off, my hand still hovering awkwardly in the air. Enzo reaches up, his fingers closing around my wrist. His skin is warm, his grip strong despite his injury.
"Thank you," he says quietly, his thumb brushing over my racing pulse. "For saving my life. For staying."
I swallow hard, my heart pounding against my ribs. "You're welcome."
We stay like that for a long moment, his hand on my wrist, our eyes locked. The air between us feels thick, charged with something I can't name. Something that makes my blood hum and my skin prickle with awareness.
Finally, Enzo clears his throat, releasing his grip on me. I let my hand fall to my side, trying to ignore the way my skin tingles where he touched me.
"You should get some rest," he says gruffly, looking away. "You look like hell."
I snort out a laugh, the tension breaking. "Thanks. You're no prize yourself, you know."
He shoots me a mock glare, but there's no heat in it. "Watch it, little mouse. I may be injured, but I can still kick your ass."
I grin at him, feeling lighter than I have in days. "I'd like to see you try, big bad wolf."
He shakes his head, a real smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It transforms his face, making him look younger, softer. More human.
"Go to sleep, Luca," he says, his voice gentle. "I'll be fine."
I hesitate, torn between the bone-deep exhaustion weighing me down and the need to watch over him, to make sure he's okay. But the lure of sleep is too strong to resist, my eyelids growing heavy.
"Okay," I murmur, stifling a yawn. "But I'm just going to rest my eyes for a minute. I'll be right here if you need anything."
Enzo nods, his gaze soft. "I know. Thank you."
I sink into the chair by his bedside, my limbs heavy and languid. The last thing I see before my eyes drift closed is Enzo, his face peaceful in the gathering dark.
Hours later, I jerk awake with a gasp, my heart pounding. The room is pitch black, the only sound the gentle rasp of Enzo's breathing. I blink, disoriented, trying to remember where I am.
Then it all comes rushing back. The attack, the gunshot, the long, terrifying hours of waiting and wondering. Enzo, pale and still, his blood on my hands.
I push to my feet, wincing as my stiff muscles protest. I pad to the side of the bed, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Enzo is asleep, his face relaxed and unguarded. The bandage on his shoulder is clean, no sign of fresh bleeding.
Relief washes over me, so strong it makes my knees weak. He's okay. He's alive, and he's going to heal. We both are.
