Chapter 23 Giulia
GIULIA
The hospital room is too bright and too cold, and I can't stop shaking. The only thing keeping me from completely falling apart is the sight of Luca sitting by my bed. I watch him from the hospital bed, my hands pressed protectively over my stomach, and I don't know what to think.
He told me he doesn't love me, that loving me would be stupid. That this marriage is just an obligation and nothing more. But he drove like a maniac to get me here and carried me through the emergency room doors. He refused to leave when I told him to go.
A nurse comes in to check my vitals. "How are you feeling?" she asks, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm.
"Scared." The word comes out before I can stop it.
"That's completely normal." She gives me a reassuring smile. "Dr. Martinez will be back soon with the test results. Try to rest."
She leaves, and Luca immediately looks at me. "Do you need anything?" His voice is rough and strained. "Water? Another blanket? I can—"
"I'm fine." I pull the thin hospital blanket higher, even though I'm not cold anymore. "You don't have to—"
"I'm asking what you need, Giulia." He cuts me off, his eyes intense. "Just answer the question."
I stare at him, trying to reconcile this man with the one who told me that I'm a liar and a manipulator. That loving me would be the stupidest thing he could do. "I don't need anything," I say finally.
The minutes stretch. Each one feels like an hour.
Luca checks with the nurses twice and asks when the doctor will be back, if the tests are taking longer than they should.
If there's anything they can tell us now.
They're patient with him and professional, but I can see the concern in their eyes when they look at me.
What if Dr. Martinez just said everything was fine to keep me calm? What if I am actually losing the baby? The thought makes my chest constrict with panic so intense I can barely breathe.
"Giulia." Luca is beside the bed suddenly, his hand hovering over mine like he wants to touch me but doesn't know if he's allowed. "Breathe. You need to breathe."
"I can't—what if—"
"Don't." His voice is fierce. "Don't go there. Not until we know."
"But the blood—"
“The doctor said it was fine.” His hand settles over mine. "Just breathe. In and out. With me."
I focus on his breathing. The steady rhythm of it, in and out, in and out. And slowly, the panic recedes enough for me to think again. His hand is still on mine, warm and solid, and he doesn't pull away.
Dr. Martinez finally comes back at 3:20 AM. She's smiling, and the relief that floods through me is so intense I feel dizzy.
"Everything looks good," she says, pulling up a stool beside the bed. "The ultrasound shows the baby is healthy and developing normally. Heartbeat is strong. There are no issues with the placenta or anything else that causes concern.”
"Then why was she bleeding?" Luca's voice is tight.
Dr. Martinez runs through some possibilities in a tone that suggests she’s had this conversation with many nervous parents-to-be before. She looks at me with kind eyes. "I know this is all scary, but this is actually very common.”
"So the baby's okay?" My voice breaks on the question.
"The baby's fine. But I want to keep you under observation for a few more hours, just to be safe. Make sure the bleeding stops completely, and there are no other symptoms."
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. "Try to rest," Dr. Martinez says, standing. "I'll check on you again in a couple of hours."
Luca sinks into the chair beside my bed like his legs won't hold him anymore. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
"Luca?" I reach for him without thinking.
He looks up, and the exhaustion in his face is devastating. "I thought—" He stops, swallows hard. "When you called, I thought—"
"I know." My hand finds his, and this time when our fingers intertwine, it feels deliberate. "I was terrified, too."
He doesn't pull away. He just holds my hand. We sit like that for a long time, just holding on to each other in the quiet hospital room while the fear slowly drains away.
I must have fallen asleep at some point because when I open my eyes, the room is lighter. Early morning sun filtering through the blinds. Luca is still in the chair beside my bed, still holding my hand.
He's asleep too, his head tilted at an angle that's going to give him a terrible pain in his neck, his face softer than I've seen it in weeks. I watch him sleep and try not to let myself hope.
I try not to read too much into the fact that he stayed and held my hand all night. That was when I was scared and bleeding and convinced I was losing everything, he was the one who got me here and refused to leave.
You're my responsibility, he'd said in the car. I take care of what's mine.
He’d say it has nothing to do with love, just the obligation he agreed to. But his hand is still wrapped around mine.
A nurse comes in to check on me, and Luca wakes immediately, his body going tense and alert. "How are you feeling?" the nurse asks.
"Better. Tired, but better."
She checks my vitals again, examines the minimal spotting, and asks about pain. Everything is improving. "Dr. Martinez will be in soon to discharge you," she says. "Looks like you and the baby are doing just fine."
When she leaves, Luca stands and stretches, wincing at the stiffness in his back. "You should have gone home," I say quietly. "You didn't have to stay all night."
He looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "I told you I wasn't leaving."
"I know, but—"
"Giulia." He cuts me off, his voice firm. "I wasn't leaving. Stop trying to give me an out."
I don't know what to say to that, and I don't know if I should let myself believe this means something. So I just nod.
Dr. Martinez discharges me with instructions to rest and avoid strenuous activity, and call immediately if the bleeding returns or the cramping gets worse.
Luca listens to every word and asks questions about what's normal and what's not, what he should watch for, when we should be concerned, like he's planning to monitor me himself.
The drive home is the opposite of last night. He’s careful, taking turns slowly and avoiding potholes. He drives like I'm made of glass.
"I'm not going to break," I say when we're halfway home.
"I know." But he doesn't speed up.
When we get to the brownstone, he comes around to help me out of the car, even though I'm perfectly capable of walking.
"I can—"
"Let me." It's not a request. So I let him help me up the front steps, his hand steady at my elbow, his body close enough that I can feel his warmth. I try not to think about how much I like it or how good it feels when he guides me to the couch in the living room.
"Sit. I'll get you water and something to eat."
"Luca, I'm fine. I can—"
"Sit, Giulia." His voice is firm. "Please."
My heart turns over in my chest, and I sit.
He disappears into the kitchen, and I hear him moving around—opening cabinets, running water, the clink of dishes. When he comes back, he's carrying a tray with water, crackers, sliced fruit, and ginger tea. "You need to eat," he says, setting it on the coffee table. "Doctor's orders."
I pick up a cracker and take a small bite, and something in his shoulders relaxes.
It feels almost... normal. And he doesn’t leave.
I expect him to make an excuse—work to do, calls to make, a reason to be anywhere but here.
But he stays. He brings me a blanket when I curl up on the couch and asks if I need more water.
He checks on me every twenty minutes like he's afraid I'll start bleeding again if he looks away.
"You don't have to babysit me," I say finally. "I'm okay."
"I know." But he doesn't leave.
Around noon, my phone buzzes with a text from Romeo.
Romeo: How are you feeling? Luca said you had a scare last night.
I glance at Luca, who's reading something on his phone but clearly paying attention to me. "You told Romeo?"
"He's your brother. He deserves to know." His voice is matter-of-fact. "I told him you're fine. That the baby's fine. But he wanted to hear it from you."
I text Romeo back, assuring him I'm okay, that it was just a scare, that everything's fine now. He responds immediately: Good. Rest. Let Luca take care of you.
The words make something twist in my chest. Let Luca take care of you. Like it's a given. Like it's what Luca should do, because he’s my husband, as if this is anything resembling a normal marriage.
I look at him, and he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "What?"
"Nothing." He looks back at his phone. "Just making sure you're okay."
—
Over the next few days, something shifts.
Luca comes home earlier. Not at midnight or one in the morning, but at six or seven in the evening.
Sometimes even earlier. He doesn't hide in his room anymore or avoid the common areas of the house.
He sits in the living room while I read, doing something on his tablet or watching television.
On the third night after we came back from the hospital, he asked if I wanted dinner.
"I can make something," I offer.
"You're supposed to be resting." He's already heading to the kitchen as he says it. "I'll handle it."
He makes pasta—nothing fancy, just spaghetti with marinara and garlic bread. But he sets the table and pours water for both of us, then sits down across from me like this is something we do all the time.
The conversation is stilted at first. I can feel the awkwardness in the air, prickling my skin.
"How are you feeling?" Luca looks up from his pasta.
"Better. The cramping stopped."
"Good. That's good."
There’s silence for a few beats, and then I try.
"Work was busy today?"
He reaches for his glass of water. "Yeah. Territorial dispute. Nothing major."
I bite my lip, twirling pasta around my fork. There’s the clink of utensils, the sound of eating, and then Luca speaks again.
“Should we start thinking about what to do with the nursery?”
My head jerks up. I stare at him, unsure of what to say. “We have time,” I manage finally, my voice shaky. I don’t understand what’s changed, but I’m afraid to test it, afraid that it will break the way he seems to think I might if he doesn’t watch me all the time.
"I know. But it doesn't hurt to plan ahead." He takes a bite of pasta and chews thoughtfully. "What do you want? For the nursery, I mean."
The question catches me off guard. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."
"Think about it." His eyes meet mine. "We should probably start looking at furniture soon. Cribs, changing tables, all that."
"Okay." I don't know what else to say.
We finish dinner in silence, and when I start to clear the plates, he stops me.
"I've got it. Go rest."
"Luca—"
"Giulia." He takes the plates from my hands. "Let me do this."
So I do. By the end of the week, we've fallen into a routine. He comes home, and we have dinner together. We talk about the baby, the house, and his work in vague terms. We don’t talk about us at all, what we used to be or what we briefly were again for those couple of weeks, or what happens now.
But I can feel the tension in the air between us, slowly building.
I catch him looking at me sometimes, his eyes dark and hungry and conflicted. And I know he catches me looking, too.
But I don’t try to bridge the gap. As much as I want him—as much as I ache for the connection we had before everything fell apart—I'm terrified of what will happen if I reach for him and he pulls away.
The next night, about a week after the hospital, we're sitting in the living room after dinner. I’m reading a book, and he’s reading reports, his laptop open on the coffee table.
"Have you thought about names?" he asks suddenly.
I look up, surprised. "Names?"
"For the baby." He closes his laptop, giving me his full attention. "We should probably start thinking about it."
"I—yeah. I guess we should." I set down my book. "Do you have any preferences?"
"Not really. I haven't thought about it much." He leans back, his expression thoughtful. "What about you?"
"I always liked traditional Italian names. But nothing too common." I hesitate. "What about family names? Is there anyone who would matter to you?"
Something flickers across his face. "My mother's name was Lucia," he says quietly. "If it's a girl, maybe—" He stops and shakes his head. "Never mind. That's stupid."
"It's not stupid." I lean forward, my heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. "Lucia is beautiful. If it's a girl, we could—"
"We'll see." He cuts me off, but not unkindly. "We have time to decide."
The moment passes, but something about it feels significant. He’s never mentioned anything about his mother or his family before. It feels like he offered me a piece of himself he didn't have to give.
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. Luca is still keeping his distance emotionally. He still hasn't said he forgives me. But he asks about the baby and talks about the future. He looks at me sometimes like he's fighting not to reach for me.
I don't know what it means. I don't know if this is just him being responsible or if it's something more, if I should let myself hope, or if I'm just setting myself up for more heartbreak.
But as I drift off to sleep, I can't help but think about the way he held my hand in the hospital. The way he refused to leave. The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I can’t help but think that maybe there’s a chance he’s starting to forgive me.
Like maybe there's a chance for us after all. And I can't help the small, fragile hope that's starting to take root in my chest.
The hope that maybe, eventually, this marriage could become something real. Something worth fighting for.
Something that might actually survive.