Present
(Isabella 19 y.o.)
Isabella
They shaved his hair.
I don’t know why that detail hits me so hard.
Reaching for my husband’s hand, I entwine our fingers and drop my forehead onto the mattress. I don’t know what I hate more—the hospital smell, the beep of the machine next to the bed tracking his heartbeat, or how still he is.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours, I’m not sure.
I almost miss it—the tiny twitch of his fingers in my own. My head snaps up, and I find two dark brown eyes watching me.
“Oh, Luca . . .” I choke out, then lean over him and place a light, quick kiss on his lips.
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me, probably wondering how I dared to kiss him, but I don’t care. I was so scared for him, and I needed the stolen kiss to assure myself that he’s alive.
I l
