Page 44 of Veil of the Past
She lets out a soft moan, my thumb rubbing her clit softly, before she kisses me back, harder, fiercer, her fingers digging into my shoulders, pulling me closer, holding me like she never wants to let me go. And I know, in that moment, that I’ve found something I can’t lose, something I won’t let myself lose.
The rain is a torrent now, pouring down around us, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but her, and the way she feels in my arms, the way she tastes, the way she makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not so broken after all.
“Romiro,” she whispers, her lips brushing mine, her breath warm and sweet against my skin. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I won’t,” I promise, my voice low and fierce. “I won’t, Alessia. I’m done being afraid. I’m done hiding. I’m here. I’m yours.”
And as I pull her closer, as I kiss her again, I know that it’s true. I know that I’m done running. Done hiding. Done pretending that I don’t care.
Because I do. I care more than I’ve ever cared about anything—about anyone. I care enough to risk everything, to fight for this, for her, forus. And I will.
I’ll fight until my last breath.
21
ALESSIA
The hospital is alive around me, a constant hum of activity, voices, and footsteps echoing down the sterile hallways. I weave through the corridors, the bright overhead lights casting a harsh glare on the tiled floors. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from the nurses’ station. It’s one of those morning that makes me feel like I’ve been awake for days, and maybe I have. I don’t know anymore, time blurs in this place.
My fingers curl around the edge of a chart, my thumb brushing over the paper as I flip through the pages. The black ink sprawls in neat, precise handwriting—vitals, notes, observations. I scan each line, letting the details soak into my mind, filing them away like pieces of a puzzle.
“Dr. Visconti?” a voice calls from behind, and I turn to see one of the nurses approaching, her face kind, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. She hands me a clipboard. “Room 312 is asking for you. The patient’s been a bit restless this morning.”
I nod, tucking the chart under my arm. “Thank you, Sheila. I’ll check in on them now.”
I make my way toward Room 312, the sounds of the hospital fading into a distant hum. The weight of everything presses on my shoulders—my responsibilities here, the unrelenting pace of residency, the way my personal life seems to have bled into the professional space. I think of Romiro, of his hands on my skin in the pouring rain just days ago, his mouth hot against mine, the rain falling as we kissed as if it were trying to wash away all of our doubts and fears. But the memory is fleeting, slipping away as quickly as it came, replaced by the reality of where I am now.
I reach the door to Room 312 and knock softly before pushing it open. Inside, the patient, an older man with graying hair and tired eyes, looks up from his bed. His name is Mr. Wallace; he’s been here for days now, recovering from a minor surgery that took a little longer to heal than expected.
“Good morning, Mr. Wallace,” I say, offering him a warm smile as I step closer to his bed. “How are we feeling today?”
He grunts, shifting slightly, his expression grumpy but not unfriendly. “I’d feel a lot better if I could get out of here, Doc,” he mutters, his voice gravelly from too many years of smoking, the edges softened by the hint of a smile he tries to hide.
I chuckle softly. “I hear you. Let’s take a look, see how everything is healing up. We might just make that happen.”
I set the chart down on the small table beside his bed, pulling on a pair of gloves as I approach. His arm is in a sling, a thick bandage wrapped around his shoulder, and I carefully peel it back to inspect the wound. The stitches are neat, holding the skin together in a clean line, and the redness is beginning to fade, the swelling almost gone.
“Looks good,” I murmur, my eyes focused on the incision. “The healing is right where we want it to be. Have you been following the instructions? Keeping it elevated?”
He grumbles something under his breath, but I catch a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’m doing my best, Doc. Though I’d rather be lifting a beer than keeping this arm elevated.”
I laugh, a genuine sound that feels good in my chest. “Maybe soon,” I say, moving back to the chart. “But for now, let’s stick to the plan.”
He nods, his smile widening. “You’re the boss,” he concedes.
I scribble a few notes on the chart, making sure everything is in order for his discharge. “You should be out of here soon, Mr. Wallace,” I assure him, and I see the relief in his eyes, the way his shoulders seem to relax just a little bit.
“Good,” he mutters. “I’ve got a dog at home who’s probably thinking I’ve abandoned him.”
I smile again, making a note to myself to check in on his paperwork one last time before he leaves. “We’ll get you back to your dog soon enough,” I promise. “But first, I need to go over some discharge instructions with you. I’ll be back in a bit.”
He nods, looking grateful, and I give him a reassuring pat on the arm before turning to leave the room. As I step back into the hallway, the noise of the hospital rushes back in—cartwheeling down the corridors, voices echoing off the walls, the beeping of monitors from unseen rooms.
I make my way back to the nurses’ station, dropping off Mr. Wallace’s chart before heading to the small alcove where I’ve stashed my papers. I find my discharge forms, a stack of them, and thumb through until I find his. I check his file again, making sure all the necessary signatures are in place, all the boxes checked.
My mind drifts again, despite myself, back to that night with Romiro. The rain soaking through my clothes, the taste of his lips against mine, the feeling of his hands gripping my waist as if he might lose me if he let go. When he found me in the park, his eyes dark with worry, his hair plastered to his forehead from the downpour. I was angry, hurt, but the moment I saw him, the fight went out of me. And then, somehow, we were kissing, and everything else faded away.
But now, back in the hospital, it feels like a dream, like something too good to be true. I shake my head, refocusing on the paper in front of me, the scrawl of my handwriting filling out the last of the information. I don’t have time to think about Romiro right now. I have patients, responsibilities, people counting on me.
