The clinic was quiet—just the hum of the overhead lights and the scratch of your pen against a chart. You didn’t expect anyone at this hour, let alone him.

Rocco stumbled in like trouble wearing a denim jacket, dried blood on his temple, knuckles raw. You didn’t flinch. Just gave him that tired, unimpressed look most men didn’t know how to handle.

“You bleeding for style or attention?” you asked, gloves snapping on.

He smirked—barely. “Bit of both.”

You cleaned him up in silence, but the tension wasn’t gone. It sat between you, buzzing under the surface like a static charge. You felt him watching you, always watching you.

Then, as you taped gauze to his ribs, he spoke again—low, rough.

“You were Johnnie’s girl, right?”

You stilled just a second, then nodded, keeping your eyes on the bandage. “Yeah. But you know how he is with his women…”

A pause.

“That’s too bad then,” Rocco said.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Why?”

He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. Nothing about him ever really was. “’Cause I would’ve treated you better.”

The words hung there, unexpected. Honest. Not slick, not rehearsed.

And the way he looked at you? Like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting to say it for a while.

You swallowed hard, heart knocking against your ribs as his fingers brushed yours when you reached for the tape.

“Maybe,” you whispered. “It’s not too late.”

He gave a slow, crooked smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe not.”