Anchored

Evening crept in quietly, without urgency or mercy.

Luca slept, finally. Not the restless, half-conscious drifting, but something deeper. Heavy. Earned.

Bella sat beside him. One hand rested near his, close enough to feel the warmth that had finally receded. She hadn’t moved much. Hadn’t needed to.

A tray sat untouched on the table outside the bedroom. Food gone cold. Coffee untouched. Bread drying at the edges. Time had passed without her noticing.

The door to the suite opened quietly.

Marco stepped inside and stopped.

He took in the scene at a glance: the tray, the open bedroom door, Bella at the bedside, posture rigid with focus and fatigue.

He didn’t speak.

Bella felt him before she looked. She turned her head, eyes sharp despite exhaustion, and met his gaze.

Marco lifted two fingers slightly, tilting his head toward the sitting area. A silent request.

She hesitated, then rose carefully, as if any sudden movement might wake Luca. She walked toward Marco, stopping near the table.

Marco glanced at the tray, then back at her.

“You have to eat,” he said quietly. Not a command. Not a joke. Just fact.

Bella exhaled slowly, controlled. “I know.”

“You haven’t,” he replied, nodding toward the untouched food.

“I tried,” she said flatly. “I can’t.”

Marco studied her—a pause to take in the tension around her eyes, the way her shoulders hadn’t dropped once since she stood.

“That won’t fix anything,” he said.

She closed her eyes briefly. “I know.”

“Try anyway,” he added. “You keep this up, you’ll be the next one flat on your back.”

Her mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. “I don’t have time for that.”

“You don’t have time not to,” Marco countered gently.

He glanced past her, toward the open bedroom door.

“How is he?”

Bella followed his gaze. Her voice softened without her meaning it to. “Better. The fever broke.”

Marco nodded once, relieved but not surprised. “And the wound?”

“It’ll heal,” she said. “Slowly. He hates that part.”

“Of course he does.”

They stood in silence for a moment, quiet but not uncomfortable.

Marco looked back at the tray and nudged it closer to her. “Eat something. Even a little. Sit. Five minutes.”

Bella stared at it, then sighed. The fight went out of her shoulders.

“Fine,” she said. “Five.”

“Progress,” Marco muttered.

She picked up the cup first, wrapping her hands around it. She took a small sip, then another. Color returned to her face slowly, almost reluctantly.

Marco watched without comment.

After a moment, Bella spoke. “He didn’t say anything when it happened. The fever. The weakness. Nothing.”

Marco snorted softly. “Shocking.”

She shot him a look.

“I mean it,” he said, raising a hand. “You know how he is. Upright? ‘Fine.’ Bleeding? ‘Manageable.’”

“And if he’s burning up?”

“Temporary inconvenience,” Marco finished.

Bella huffed quietly. “Idiot.”

“Careful,” Marco said. “You married him.”

She didn’t argue.

From the bedroom came a subtle shift. A breath changing rhythm. Luca moved slightly, still asleep.

Bella’s attention snapped back instantly.

Marco noticed and smiled faintly. “He’s lucky,” he said.

Bella didn’t look away from the doorway. “He knows.”

“Good.”

Marco straightened. “Father and Vittorio are downstairs. They’re rearranging half the city.”

“Figures.”

“They’ll want you both later,” he added. “No rush. He stays here until he can stand without pretending.”

Bella nodded. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Marco turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“And Bella?”

She looked at him.

“Next time,” he said lightly, “try not to get your husband shot.”

She almost smiled. “I’ll do my best,” she replied.

Marco left quietly.

Bella stood there for a second longer, then went into the bedroom. She sat down on the bed, watching Luca sleep, her fingers brushing his knuckles in a small, grounding touch.

For now, he was here. For now, that was enough.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, judging them silently.

The room was quiet. No fever haze. No heat crawling under his skin. Just the steady, localized pain in his shoulder. Sharp, contained. Honest.

Luca was finally himself again. Or close enough.

He lay still a moment, taking inventory. Breathing steady. Head clear. Wounded side protesting every movement, but nothing dramatic. Compared to the chaos of yesterday, this was almost polite.

Bella slept beside him—not elegantly, not posed. Properly. One arm bent awkwardly, hair spread across the pillow as if it had lost a fight with gravity. Her face was softer like this. Unarmored. No sharp edges.

He watched her longer than necessary.

Carefully, he lifted a hand. Movement sent a sharp reminder through his muscle, but he didn’t stop. Fingers brushed her temple, gently moving a loose strand of hair.

She stirred slightly. A quiet breath. Nothing more.

Luca’s mouth curved into a faint, tired smile.

Pain he could handle. Fever had been chaos. This was reality, concentrated in one stubborn spot.

He let his hand rest, then eased it back, settling against the pillows. His side throbbed in complaint, but he ignored it. Worth it.

He kept his eyes on her, grounded, awake, present in a way he hadn’t been yesterday.

For the first time since the shooting, his thoughts weren’t on threats or strategy. They were simple. Quiet.

She’s here.

I’m alive.

The rest can wait.

He reached for the phone, ignoring the side’s protests. “Bring breakfast to the suite,” he said. Quieter: “Light. Tea. Soup if you have it.”

The room settled. Curtains barely moved. Morning stayed polite.

Beside him, Bella stirred—not fully awake, just negotiating with sleep. She shifted closer, brow creasing faintly.

Luca watched her with the stillness he’d learned during too many nights requiring silence.

Her lashes fluttered. Then eyes opened.

“You’re up,” she murmured, rough with sleep.

“Unfortunately,” he replied quietly.

She studied him. Practically. Eyes flicking over his face, his color, the way he held himself. Her hand rested on his chest, checking without asking.

“You’re better,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

Bella exhaled long and controlled. She realized how close she still was, arm draped over him. Morning caught them unarmored. She didn’t move.

“What are you doing awake?” she asked.

“Watching you,” he said. “And you snore.”

Her lips curved faintly, tired.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” he replied. “Terrible at lying, by the way.”

She rolled her eyes, yawning, face briefly to the pillow. When she looked back, her expression shifted. Less softness.

“How’s the wound?”

He shrugged, immediately regretted it.

“Still attached,” he said. “Angry, but cooperative.”

She nodded, satisfied enough, letting her head fall back. The quiet returned.

A knock sounded, distant but inevitable.

Bella glanced at it, then back at Luca. “Who is it now?”

“Food,” he said.

Bella slipped out of bed and crossed to the door, opening it just enough. She took the tray from the staff before they could make eye contact or say anything unnecessary, gave a brief nod, and closed the door again.

She carried it back carefully and set it on the nightstand beside the bed. Tea, soup, something solid that looked harmless.

She sat beside him, still in that in-between state of exhaustion and relief.

Luca reached for a piece of bread, then paused. Instead of eating it himself, he lifted it toward her mouth.

Bella blinked. “Really?”

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” he said quietly. “Not before everything happened. And after that… I doubt you did either.”

She hesitated, then admitted softly, “Marco made me. I had to eat something.”

Luca raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

She didn’t answer.

“You didn’t eat much, did you?” he said, voice low.

Her jaw tightened slightly, but she allowed the truth to settle. “I wasn’t thinking about me. Only you.”

He nodded, hand lifting slowly to brush against hers on the tray. “I know,” he murmured. “And I… appreciated it. More than I could say.”

She returned the favor immediately, spooning a bit of soup and guiding it toward him. Luca opened his mouth obediently, smirking around the spoon.

“This is deeply humiliating,” he murmured.

“You got shot,” Bella replied calmly. “You lost dignity somewhere between the bullet and the fever. You couldn’t blame me for trying to save it.”

They ate like that for a moment. Not much. Just enough. Quiet, unguarded, strangely intimate in a way neither named.

Then Luca stilled. His gaze shifted, sharp despite the fatigue.

“About yesterday.”

Bella paused mid-motion, spoon hovering.

“You said something,” he continued carefully. “When I was… not exactly cooperative.”

Her jaw tightens. “You were half unconscious.”

“Convenient excuse,” he said. “But I heard it.”

She looked at him now. Fully. No deflection.

“I said a lot of things,” she replied.

“You said,” Luca insisted, voice low, steady, “I love you.”

Silence stretched. Not awkward. Just heavy.

Bella exhaled, slow and honest. “I thought you wouldn’t remember.”

“I was on fire,” he said. “Not deaf.”

She studied him, measuring the moment like everything else in her life. Then she set the spoon down.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I did.”

Luca’s expression shifted. Something unguarded slipped through before he could stop it. He swallowed, throat tight.

“Good,” he said quietly.

Bella’s eyes narrowed, anger flickering. She stood abruptly, placing the tray carefully on the nightstand. “Good?” she snapped. “I’m done being polite.”

Luca’s hand shot out, catching hers before she could step away. Pain flared in his side, but he held on, gripping her wrist gently but firmly. “Stay,” he said, voice low but commanding.

She wrenched slightly free, storming to the window. Her arms crossed, face turned toward the sunlight. Luca drew a deep breath, ignoring the protest of his wounded side, and slowly rose to his feet.

He stepped toward her carefully, each movement measured, but determined. Bella didn’t soften. She glared, angry and stubborn, arms folded.

The tension hung for a heartbeat. Then Luca slipped his arms around her from behind, pulling her gently against him.

“Don’t fight me,” he interrupted softly. “Not while I can still hold you.”

Bella stiffened but didn’t struggle.

He rested his chin lightly on her shoulder, breathing her in for a moment. Then, carefully, he guided her to turn toward him. She kept her gaze away, stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes.

Slowly, he lifted her chin with his fingers, tilting her face toward his. She finally looked at him, just slightly, eyes searching, wary.

“I love you,” he said, low and steady.

Bella hesitated, her lips parting as if to speak, then closing again. “Do you… really mean that?” she asked quietly, a shadow of doubt flickering in her gaze.

Luca’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing lightly over her skin. “Every word,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Not just in words—look at me, Bella. I’m not leaving. I’m not pretending. Not now. Not ever.”

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers, letting his warmth and steady presence anchor her. “I’ve got you. Always,” he murmured.

The vulnerability in his eyes, the unshakable certainty, broke through her hesitation. Bella exhaled, letting the tension drain from her shoulders, her resistance softening.

And then, finally, she let him press his lips to hers, a slow, grounding kiss. Her hands found his chest, and for the first time that morning, she allowed herself to be held completely—trusting, certain, and utterly his.