The room was suffocating in its quiet. Sterile walls, the faint sting of antiseptic, and the soft blip of the heart monitor stitched the silence into something heavier than sound.
Felix lay motionless beneath pale sheets, the bruises on his face already beginning to fade—but not gone. A strip of gauze crossed his temple, and the IV line trailed from his arm to the machine beside him like a lifeline tethering him to this world.
Matteo stood just inside the door, not moving.
He didn't announce himself.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even breathe too loud.
His gaze traced every detail—Felix's jaw slack in sleep, the faint shadow of dried blood under his ear, the small rise and fall of his chest.
Still breathing. But not waking.
Matteo's jaw tightened.
He stepped closer, footsteps muted by the polished floor. When he reached the bedside, he didn't sit. He didn't touch.
He stood at attention, rigid as though discipline might keep him from falling apart. His hands locked behind his back—not restraint, but fear. Fear of what might break if he reached out.
The silence grew thick between them.
Matteo lowered his head, voice barely more than a breath.
"…You hated silence," he muttered into the void. "Always talking. Always asking questions. Always filling the quiet I couldn't handle."
Felix didn't stir.
Matteo stared longer, his expression unreadable—until it softened. Just slightly.
"You called me heartless."
A pause.
"I didn't argue."
Still nothing.
He dragged a hand down his face, then looked away as if his own presence weighed too heavy on him.
"I didn't mean for this," he said, quieter now. "Not you."
His eyes flicked back to Felix, then settled on the steady monitor.
Blip. Blip. Blip.
"Wake up already."
No response.
Only the quiet rhythm of life refusing to leave—but not yet returning.
Matteo's shoulders fell in the slightest defeat, and for a moment… he looked younger. Not the heir. Not the sharp-edged shadow of his father.
Just a man who'd let someone down.
After another long silence, he turned and left the room without looking back.
The corridor leading to the doctor's office smelled faintly of antiseptic and recycled air. Matteo's shoes echoed sharply against the floor as he approached, jaw set, eyes darker than usual. The guard outside gave a small nod and opened the door without a word.
Inside, the doctor—an older man this time, white coat pressed, glasses resting low on his nose—stood up from behind his desk the moment Matteo entered.
"Mr. Romano," he greeted calmly. "Please, have a seat."
Matteo didn't sit.
"How is he?" His voice carried none of the polish he used at the company—just weight.
The doctor folded his hands over a file. "His vitals remain stable. There's been no sign of internal complications since the surgery. His oxygen levels are strong. We're monitoring around the clock."
Matteo's eyes narrowed. "That's not what I asked."
A pause.
The doctor cleared his throat, words chosen with care. "Neurologically, things appear promising. Brain scans show activity. No indication of a coma forming. We've ruled out further bleeding."
"Then why hasn't he woken up?" Matteo's voice was clipped. "You're telling me everything should be fine, but he's still unconscious."
The doctor hesitated before responding. "After trauma to the head, sometimes the body takes its own time. Even when surgery goes well, the brain… protects itself. Shuts down temporarily to recover."
"He wasn't shot in the brain." Matteo's tone was ice. Controlled, but barely. "The bullet didn't even penetrate."
"No," the doctor agreed. "But it came close enough. Swelling. Shock. His body endured severe stress."
Matteo looked away, jaw tightening. His fists curled at his sides.
"How long?" he asked tightly.
"There's no precise timeline," the doctor said gently. "Hours. Days. Everyone heals differently. But we're doing everything possible. He's showing signs of normal response. His body's fighting."
Matteo exhaled slowly, through his nose. His eyes—so sharp and commanding in boardrooms—now faltered, clouded with something those rooms never demanded of him.
Fear. Naked and unguarded.
He raked a hand through his hair, rough. "He shouldn't be in that bed. Not because of me."
The doctor didn't reply to that. He only studied Matteo quietly.
"I'll let you know the moment there's any change," he said instead.
Matteo gave a curt nod, then turned for the door—until the doctor added gently, "Sometimes the mind takes longer than the body. Talk to him, Mr. Romano. Even if he can't answer… it might help."
Matteo paused with his hand on the door.
His eyes didn't meet the doctor's.
But he nodded once.
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
The hiss of the door closing was the only sound as he returned.
Felix was still there—still unmoving beneath pale sheets, the steady beep of the monitor the only reminder he hadn't slipped away. His skin held more color now, but the bruising on his temple lingered like a shadow of everything Matteo couldn't undo.
He moved closer, steps uncertain.
The chair beside the bed scraped softly as he pulled it back. For a moment, he only stared at the still hand resting against the sheets—fingers slightly curled, fragile.
Matteo sat down.
And said nothing.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. His fingers laced together, restless with tension.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
Finally, he looked at Felix again.
"I don't know what the hell I'm doing here," he muttered, voice barely above a breath. "You'd probably laugh if you could hear me. Or worse—roll your eyes."
He exhaled, slow. Shaky.
"I was never good at this. Talking. Especially not with you. You always had to pull words out of me like teeth."
His gaze dropped to Felix's hand.
"I used to think… you were too much. Too loud. Too soft. Too stubborn. Too present."
He swallowed.
"But maybe that was just because I was too… absent."
The word cracked in his throat, heavier than he expected.
"You annoyed me," he whispered, a bitter edge in his tone. "Always checking in. Always asking if I ate. Calling even when I told you I was busy. Like clockwork."
He paused, eyes locked on Felix's chest, watching it rise and fall—mechanical. Fragile.
"But then you stopped calling. And I didn't notice."
His jaw clenched.
"I didn't notice, Felix."
The silence between them was louder now. Unforgiving.
Matteo looked down, thumb brushing the blanket's edge—hesitating, stopping short before touching him.
"I don't even know your favorite breakfast," he admitted, voice breaking. "You stayed. Through everything, you stayed. And I—" His throat caught. "I never stayed with you."
The words sat heavy in the sterile room.
"…Just wake up," he murmured.
He leaned back, resting his head against the wall behind him. For once, Matteo Moretti had no answers. No strategies. No plans.
Just silence.
And guilt.
And a man in a hospital bed who used to smile too brightly… and now couldn't at all.
Matteo stayed seated, elbows on his knees, the weight of silence pressing down on his shoulders.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I never have."
His fingers twitched against each other, knuckles white with the pressure he didn't realize he applied.
"I never paid enough attention. Not to your face when you were hurting. Not to your voice when it went quiet."
His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he pressed on.
"I thought being cold meant keeping control. That it made me strong," he said bitterly. "But now you're here. And I don't feel strong at all."
The machines beeped steadily in the background. Felix remained still, his breathing steady but distant.
Matteo's jaw worked like he wanted to say more but couldn't.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, almost soundless. "I should've seen you."
His hand hovered for a moment, then rested gently near Felix's on the bed—not touching, but close.
"I should've made room for you," he added. "I should've listened."
A quiet breath escaped him, as though even saying that much had cost him something.
The room stayed still. No reply. No flicker of lashes. Just the quiet hum of machines and the throb of guilt he couldn't escape.
He sat there a while longer, eyes on Felix.
Then, slowly, he stood. The chair creaked behind him.
He hesitated. His hand curled into a fist at his side. Then he whispered, not sure if Felix would ever hear it—but needing to say it anyway:
"I don't deserve another chance. But if you open your eyes—just once—I swear I'll spend the rest of my life earning it."
He turned and walked to the door, steps slow, the silence following him like a shadow.
And behind him, Felix still didn't move.
Yet.