Matteo was still at the hospital, and after the week I’ve had, all I wanted was to sit with him and laugh. I wanted to forget I was angry at Roman and that we had barely spoken since he took Herrera’s side in front of everyone.
It was he who had made a big deal about respect, it was him who wanted me to come to him first.
I groaned, irritated.
The steady beeping of the machines was the first thing I heard when I stepped into the hospital room. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nose, mingling with the quiet hum of the ventilation system. Matteo lay propped up in bed, his face pale but alive—thankfully alive. His eyes, usually so full of mischief, were tired now, heavy with pain and fatigue.
He was still recovering.
For a moment, I stood in the doorway, staring at him. He had hi
