The next two weeks changed their lives in ways neither had expected.
Dante was unable to care for himself properly while his wound healed. Isabella took responsibility for everything.
She changed his dressings every morning and night, prepared his meals, brought him water, helped him wash, and made sure he followed the nurse’s instructions.
She even helped him bathe when his injury made ordinary movements difficult.
Dante hated needing assistance.
He hated being weak.
Most of all, he hated that Isabella could make him forget his anger with a single ridiculous comment.
“Stop moving,” she ordered while changing his dressing.
“I’m not moving.”
“You’re glaring.”
“Am I supposed to smile?”
“That would be terrifying. I might call the police.”
He shot her a warning look.
She laughed.
At first, Dante assumed she was simply an unusually fearless woman. Then he began noticing the smaller things.
The way she carefully checked whether he was in pain.
The way she pretended not to notice when he struggled.
The way she always left the better portion of the meal for him, even when she was hungry herself.
And the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching.
Whenever she finished changing his dressing, her gaze would occasionally drift towards his bare abdomen.
Dante noticed.
Naturally, he noticed.
“Enjoying the view, little girl?”
Isabella immediately looked away.
“I’m checking your wound.”
“Of course.”
“Your wound happens to be near your stomach.”
“How unfortunate for you.”
She glared at him.
“Keep talking, and I’ll make your next dressing tighter.”
He laughed quietly.
It was becoming dangerously easy to enjoy her company.