Page 476 of Rosetti Family New York
Two hours later, I'm still humming as I arrange succulents along his windowsills, their bright green shocking against all the gray and black. My voice echoes off his bare walls—the first music these rooms have heard, probably. Coffee beans from a local roaster fill a glass jar on the counter, their rich aroma already warming the kitchen. Throw pillows in bright yellow dot the leather couch. A philodendron trails from a hanging planter, bringing life to his carefully controlled emptiness.
I'm proud of the plants, excited by my independence, and desperately hoping he'll love what I've done. Or at least not hate it. It feels good to be finally making choices that feel entirely mine.
"I arranged the succulents by light requirements," I tell the empty apartment, practicing what I'll say when he gets home. Do I sound confident? Or like a kid showing off finger paintings?
The yellow pillows catch afternoon light, and I imagine Van's reaction. Will he see them as joy invading his darkness, or territory I'm claiming without permission? The uncertainty makes my pulse race, but I don't remove them. I chose to stay. I chose to build something here instead of running.
I catch my reflection in his spotless windows—small woman in simple jeans and a tee, hair messy, cheeks flushed with accomplishment. I look… happy. When's the last time I looked genuinely happy instead of performing happiness for my family?
The coffee jar gleams on his sterile counter like a small rebellion. I run my fingers along its smooth surface, grinning at how the rich aroma transforms his clinical kitchen into something that breathes.
Van's nightmare starts during his afternoon nap after he returns from the emergency surgery, exhausted from hours of trauma work on top of everything we've been dealing with. I'm repotting herbs on the kitchen counter when I hear the first sharp intake of breath from the bedroom.
Then the thrashing begins.
I freeze, soil coating my fingers, listening to his powerful body convulse against the sheets. This isn't restless sleep. This is something darker.
"No," he gasps, voice raw with terror I've never heard from him before. "I can't choose. Don't make me choose."
My heart clenches. I probably ought to give him privacy, let him work through whatever this is alone. But the sounds he makes—guttural, broken—pull me toward the bedroom like gravity.
He's fighting invisible restraints, his wrists twisting in that specific motion I've seen him make when he thinks I'm not watching. "The patients," he pleads with someone who isn't there. "Which patients do I save? I can't—they're… no…"
Oh God. This isn't just any nightmare. This isthenightmare. The one that carved those rope scars into his wrists.
His body jerks against phantom zip ties, reliving whatever horror stole pieces of his soul. "Choose," he whispers desperately, and I realize this is what lives beneath his careful control. This is why he needs power instead of helplessness.
"Save them," he whispers, then his words trail off into unintelligible sounds.
Watching him trapped in trauma breaks something open in my chest. I don't know what I'm doing, but I can't just stand here while he suffers.
Without thinking, I drop to my knees beside the bed, hands flat against his chest where his heart hammers like it might burst. Something about staying calm, grounding him through steady touch—it flows from some deep instinct I didn't know I had.
"Van," I say, letting my voice cut through the darkness consuming him. "You're safe. You're home."
His thrashing doesn't stop, but something shifts. My voice reaches him even in the nightmare's grip.
I keep my hands steady on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Am I actually helping, or just playing house like some stupid girl with a crush? 'Local Girl Saves Grumpy Surgeon with Power of Optimism' - what a headline that would make.
The doubt tries to creep in, but I push it away. This isn't about me right now.
"You saved them all, Van. Every patient you could reach. You're not helpless anymore."
My voice becomes an anchor, pulling him toward safety.
"Come back to me," I whisper, leaning closer. "You're not there anymore. You're here, with me, and you're safe."
His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, searching for threats that don't exist. But when they find mine, something settles. His breathing begins to slow, reality winning the fight against memory.
"Carmela?" His voice is hoarse, uncertain, like he can't believe I'm real.
"I'm here." I don't move my hands from his chest. "You're okay. You're home."
He sits up slowly, running shaking hands through his hair. When he notices the transformed apartment for the first time, his gaze moves from the plants to the coffee beans to the splash of color I've scattered throughout his carefully controlled space.
"You stayed," he says, and there's wonder in his voice.
"I chose to stay," I correct, the distinction feeling important. "I chose to build something here instead of running."
