The beep of the monitor was steady—steady enough to make him believe, for a moment, that things might still be okay.
Luciano sat quietly at her bedside, elbows on his knees, his usually composed frame caved forward under the weight of silence. His hand cradled hers, thumb tracing absent circles over her fingers.
Then—movement.
Her lashes fluttered. A soft, broken breath escaped her lips.
Luciano rose instantly, eyes locked on her face.
"Nia?"
Her lids parted slowly. The ceiling light caught the brown in her eyes—dim with pain, but undeniably alive.
He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Thank God," he murmured, brushing her hand against his lips.
She blinked, slow and hazy. Her lips barely moved.
"…what… happened…"
"You're safe," he said, voice thick. "You were shot… the doctors operated. You made it through."
She blinked again. A wince flared at the corner of her mouth.
"Don't talk," he added quickly. "Just rest. Please."
Her gaze drifted toward him, weak and searching.
"…hurts…"
"I know," he whispered, eyes glassy. "I know it does. I'm sorry. I should've—"
He stopped himself, then leaned down, pressing a trembling kiss to her forehead.
"I should've never told you to come to the ballroom," he breathed. "I was stupid. And you got caught in a war because of me."
Nia didn't speak. Her hand weakly gripped his.
"I should've protected you," he said, barely a whisper.
A beat of silence.
Luciano blinked hard, nodding, his forehead resting briefly against her temple.
"I will. I swear it. I'll fix this."
Nia's eyes closed, exhaustion tugging at her. But before the darkness claimed her again, she murmured,
"Just let me go…"
"I won't," he said, voice cracking as he kissed
her hand.
"Not ever. You mean too much to me."