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.