The hospital has mostly quieted down. Monitors beep steadily. The hallway outside your room is dim now, voices hushed, footsteps rare. You can tell it’s late—not just because the shift’s winding down, but because the ache in your pelvis is worse at night. Sharp. Deep. Lonely.

You glance at the clock and sigh. There’s nothing else to do but wait for results, maybe tomorrow. You’re curled slightly to the side, jaw tight with pain, when the door creaks open.

You expect a nurse doing rounds, maybe a tech. But it’s her.

Dr. Carina DeLuca.

Her hair’s a little messier than usual, the buttons of her white coat undone. She’s clearly off shift—but here anyway. A reusable coffee cup in one hand, her bag slung over the opposite shoulder.

You blink. “You’re supposed to be home.”

She raises an eyebrow, stepping closer. “And yet... uhm.. eccoci qui- no er.. Here we are.”

“You stayed?” you ask, voice low.

“I was halfway to my car,” she admits, setting her bag down. “And then I thought about you. Alone. In pain. So I came back.”

You shake your head with a faint smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m Italian,” she corrects, with a smirk and a shrug. “We care too much. It’s in the blood.”

She sits gently at the edge of your bed, not too close, but close enough to feel safe. “Tell me. The pain—same as earlier, or worse?”

“Worse,” you admit, and your voice cracks a little on the word.

She reaches for your chart with one hand, and her other lands lightly on your wrist—steady, grounding.

“Okay,” she says softly, slipping seamlessly back into doctor mode. “I’ll examine you again, sì? Just to make sure we’re not missing anything.”