Page 66 of Fatal Sloth

Collapsing onto the bed, I feel him pull me close, offering his comforting embrace. "Mmm," I murmur, snuggling into him, ready to surrender to sleep's gentle call.

"I'm not done with you yet, Piccolina," he whispers in my ear, his voice promising more. With a cocky smirk, he adds, "If you can still walk afterward, then we're not finished. But I'll give you a minute to catch your breath."

Sebastiano fulfills his promise. After our passionate night, I drift into a haze, recalling him carrying me into the shower, bridal style, where he gently washes every inch of my body.

When he finishes, he wraps me in a fluffy towel and dries me off before slipping one of his oversized shirts over my head and laying me in bed.

Once I am nestled in bed beneath the warm duvet, I worm my body toward him, seeking his comforting touch. He wraps his arms around me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Sleep, Piccolina,” is the last thing I hear before he pulls me close to him as sleep takes over.

The time has passed so fast since I got married, and it’s hard to think I've been married for a few months. It still amazes me that Sebastiano has now completely synchronized his sleeping schedule with mine and even wakes up early so he can work out with me. His only request is that I don't overdo it, especially with running. It’s both charming and slightly amusing to watch him show concern.

I still laugh when I remember back to our conversation, "You don't need to run so many damn miles, Mia. Not unless you're being chased or training for a marathon.”

And then there's his shameless offer to help me with "morning cardio" in bed, if my five-mile run isn't enough. The thought alone sends a flush to my cheeks, reminding me of his wildly playful side.

He's become my favorite workout partner, spotting me as I lift weights and encouraging me to push my limits. Whenever he catches me dancing, it inevitably leads to us getting naked. Not that I mind—his presence has awakened a new side of me, and his touch ignites new feelings unlike anything I've ever known.

This morning is no different. After our workout, we head downstairs. The smell of sizzling bacon fills the air, making my stomach growl in hunger. But suddenly, a wave of nausea hits me like a ton of bricks. I try to push through it, hoping it's just a passing feeling, but the closer we get to the kitchen, the worse it gets.

My steps slow as nausea tightens its grip on me, twisting my insides into knots and threatening to unleash its fury at any moment. I can't ignore it any longer. With a sense of urgency, I break into a sprint, desperate to reach the bathroom before it's too late.

I make it to the bathroom and barely have time to sink to my knees before my stomach rebels. The sound of retching fills the room as I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl. It's a violent, uncontrollable sensation, leaving me weak and trembling in its aftermath.

Sebastiano barges in, his eyes wide with worry and confusion on his handsome face. His tie hangs loosely around his neck as he quickly moves to my side, bending down beside me. His gentle hands gather my hair, carefully pulling it away from my face as I lean over the toilet, overcome by waves of nausea.

"Are you okay, Piccolina?" he asks. I can hear the concern in his tone as he waits for my response. It's hard to find the words to answer him with the overwhelming sickness swirling within me.

I manage a weak nod, clutching his hand tightly for support. Each heave feels like a violent storm raging through my body. But Sebastiano’s presence grounds me as I struggle to ride out the wave of nausea.

“I'm fine,” I finally manage to croak.

Sebastiano's brows furrow with concern as he hears my hoarse reply. He squeezes my hand gently, his eyes searching mine for any sign of reassurance, and I muster a faint smile, hoping to give him a sense of calm to believe me.

"You're not fine," he insists. "I'm calling the doctor." Without waiting for my response, he reaches for his phone and begins typing. Sitting down beside me, he pulls me onto his lap, his arms enveloping me in a protective hug.

A ping from his phone interrupts the silence, signaling a response from the doctor. "The doctor is on her way," Sebastiano tells me, his eyes never leaving mine. "Do you think you can get up and drink something? Or should we stay by the bathroom a little longer?" His willingness to cater to my needs warms my heart.

But as the nausea seems to have passed, I feel a semblance of normalcy returning. "I think I'm okay now," I admit. "It was just the smell of the bacon that made me feel a little queasy."

He gives me a questioning look but doesn't say a word. Instead, he offers me a supportive hand- his gentle yet firm grip helps me to my feet. I splash some cold water on my face and rinse my mouth before leaving the bathroom. Together, we make our way to the kitchen table, where Roman awaits with a cold ginger ale in hand. I slowly drink the bubbly drink and gnaw on a slice of toast while we wait for the doctor to get here.

A short while later, the doctor arrives and enters our bedroom, Sebastiano's nerves are practically vibrating off him. He's pacing back and forth like a contestant on a game show, and honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't worn a groove into the floor yet. I clear my throat, trying to get his attention, and he freezes mid-pace, like a deer caught in headlights. Now he's hovering by my side, looking like a lost puppy who's wandered into a lion's den. Dr. Harlow, on the other hand, is calm and collected, as if she were about to give a TED talk on relaxation techniques.

“I apologize for taking so long to get here. My phone was on silent for yoga,” a detail that earned a small chuckle from me. And then she drops the bomb about Sebastiano insisting on a female doctor, and suddenly, I'm trying to stifle a laugh. I mean, threatening poor Arthur, the Morelli primary doctor who’s in his mid-eighties, with Sebastiano's wrath? That's like bringing a water gun to a shootout.

Dr. Harlow begins her series of questions, and each one is interrupted by Sebastiano, who apparently is unable to get his nervous energy under control. With each interruption, his brow furrows deeper, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly agitated.

I shoot him a playful look, trying to ease the tension with a nudge and a smile that says, "Calm down, tiger, I've got this."

But he's relentless, like a protective parent on their child's first day of school, unwilling to let me face the doctor alone.

I reach out, squeezing his hand in a silent plea for him to trust me. "Relax, big guy." My smile reassures him. "I can handle this." This side of Sebastiano is new to me, and it makes my belly flip.

“Could we have a little privacy?” Dr. Harlow asks, directing her questions solely at Sebastiano.

“Obviously, I don't need anyone seeing my wife,” he replies, his protective instinct kicking in again.

“I mean with just her and me,” she clarifies, her tone gentle but firm.

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