“Enough,” he said quietly, firm but gentle. “Stop crying. I’ll deal with it.”
Rocco brushed my hair back with practiced ease, his thumb sweeping away the tears that kept slipping down my face. He pressed a brief kiss against my temple before straightening and heading off to grab a cold compress, muttering under his breath like this was all routine.
“Always acting like you don’t need anyone,” he added over his shoulder, half-teasing, half-scolding. “Yet the moment you get hurt, you fall apart. What would you do if I wasn’t around?”
I didn’t answer. My eyes stayed fixed on the raw, reddened skin circling my wrist. Seven years. Seven years of being sheltered, soothed, protected by him. Wrapped in his attention like it was something permanent. What would I have done without Rocco?
The truth hit harder than the pain: I didn’t want to find out anymore. I didn’t want his care, his concern, or this hollow imitation of intimacy. Not now. Not ever again.
That night refused to release me into sleep. Whether it was the burning in my wrist or the quiet collapse happening in my chest, rest wouldn’t come. I shifted endlessly beneath the covers, sweat clinging to my skin, begging for unconsciousness. It took hours before exhaustion finally dragged me under.
At dawn, rough hands shook me awake.
I groaned and tried to swat him away, but Rocco only laughed softly and leaned down, brushing a quick kiss across my lips.
The lingering fog vanished instantly. Anger flared so sharply I almost shoved him away—almost slapped him—but I stopped myself at the last second.
“Good morning,” he said lightly. “Did my sleepy little star finally wake up?”
I turned my head aside and wiped my mouth with clear irritation.
“It’s the weekend,” I muttered as I pushed myself upright. “Would it kill you to let me sleep?”
His teasing expression dissolved into concern. “You were burning up last night. You didn’t even notice. Get dressed—we’re going to see a doctor.”
I studied his face. The worry was real, etched deep between his brows. But I couldn’t tell anymore if it was meant for me or simply the role he was used to playing.
I didn’t argue. I followed him anyway.
In the clinic corridor, fate intervened.
We nearly ran straight into Antonella.
She was favoring one foot, moving carefully, her expression pinched with discomfort. The moment Rocco saw her, his entire demeanor shifted.
The man who had been hovering over me moments earlier didn’t spare me a glance as he hurried to her side, one arm instantly supporting her weight.
“What happened?” he asked, urgency threading his voice.
Antonella’s eyes flicked past him—to me—and she offered a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Just twisted my ankle. What a coincidence. You’re here too?”
Rocco hesitated for the briefest second, then turned toward me. The look on his face—controlled, composed, faintly guilty—was one I knew far too well. It always surfaced when Antonella did.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “A friend’s kid sister had a fever. I brought her in.”
I felt nothing. No shock. No anger. Just a dull acceptance. To the outside world, I had always been that—someone else’s sister. A detail. A secret.
Antonella nodded politely. “You should take care of her. I’ll be fine. I can head over there myself.” She gestured toward another section of the clinic.
Rocco didn’t even hesitate. He bent down and lifted Antonella into his arms with effortless care. “I’ll carry you. Sofia, wait here.”
I watched them move away together, something hollow spreading through my chest. Maybe it was the fever weakening my body. Maybe it was the sight of him prioritizing her without a second thought. My legs trembled, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself.
He never looked back.
It didn’t matter that I was sick. It didn’t matter that I was standing there alone. In that moment, nothing about me seemed to matter at all.
Rocco wore perfection well—until Antonella appeared. Then everything he tried to hide spilled through the cracks. And he didn’t even realize it.
I forced a thin, bitter smile and turned toward the examination room on my own.
The results were immediate. The thermometer blinked an alarming number—41.3°C. The burn on my wrist had worsened, infected and inflamed, aggravated by stress and neglect. On top of that, a viral fever had set in. The doctor prescribed boiled medicinal herbs and a bitter infusion.
Out of habit, my fingers reached for my phone.
Then I stopped.
Habit was dangerous. Habit was how I’d stayed too long.
A quiet laugh escaped me as I slipped the phone back into my bag. Carrying the medicine alone, I headed to the patient lounge—no escort, no hand to guide me, no one to lean on.
And for the first time, I didn’t ask for one.
