Page 57 of Luciano

I carried her to the bed, sat her on the edge, and reached for the first aid kit.

Her split lip needed ointment. The raw skin at her wrists needed bandaged. I tended to each wound with clinical precision, keeping my touch feather-light.

"You’re good at this," she whispered out of nowhere.

I paused. "At what?" I was confused.

"Fixing broken things. I feel better already." She smiled softly.

My chest tightened.

I finished bandaging her wrists, then brushed my thumb over the back of her hand. "You’re not broken."

She laughed again, but it was weaker this time. "Liar."

I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my eyes.

“You’re not broken,” I said. “You’re injured.”

She blinked slowly.

“Broken implies nonfunction. Irreparable. But after everything—past and present—you’re still here. Still fighting.

That’s not broken. That’s resilience.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to argue. I didn’t give her the chance.

“You survived it. You protected your mind, even when your body was under attack. You endured. You’re not broken, Ava.

You’re proven. You are not less because something happened to you. You're more. Refined by it. Tempered. Like steel. That’s closer to whole than it is to broken.”

For a second, I thought she’d pull away from me.

Instead, she leaned into my touch.

I pressed my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling.

"Sleep, Uccellini," I whispered. "I’ll be here when you wake."

I laid her down in the bed, tucked the blanket around her. Her hair fanned across the pillow, still damp, haloing her face.

She stared up at me.

“Do you even need those glasses?” she asked, voice low and heavy—she was seconds from sleep.

“No. I don’t need them,” I said, settling beside her. “But people love patterns. So I gave them one.

Something to focus on—something harmless. Instead of noticing that I don’t speak much.”

I paused, then added, “It’s interesting, how human nature works. They never suspect the quiet guy in glasses is capable of carving out a man’s throat.

Take off the glasses, and I’m just the quiet guy who might actually do it.”

She smirked. “So it’s your disguise?”

I nodded once. “Worked for Clark Kent.”

Ava chuckled, low and sleepy. “You look like a male model whether you speak or not. That’s enough.”

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