He shook his head.
“Good. That’s good.”
I drew back my arm. Tried to ignore how his skin felt under my touch. How close we were sitting. How much I wanted to stop cataloging symptoms and just...
Stop.
He’s dying. You’re his nurse. Act like it.
But my body wasn’t listening to my brain. Pulse kicking up. Heat crawling up my neck. The memory of this morning rushed back without permission: his mouth on mine, those calloused palms on my body, the way he’d come apart under me.
Xavier’s grip closed around my wrist. Not restraining. Holding.
I looked up. Met his stare, the raw need there stealing my air.
“I should let you rest. You need sleep. Healing. Not...”
The words came out too rough.
He drew me closer. Slowly. Giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
Our foreheads touched. His exhalation warm across my lips.
The scar on his shoulder called to me, the one I’d relocated in my apartment. Hellhound’s words echoed in my head: accelerated healing from continuous PSI-317 exposure. Three times normal human rates.
Xavier had recovered in days what should have taken weeks. I’d thought I’d done good work. Turned out the chip that was killing him had also been keeping him alive.
The irony was devastating.
“This is a terrible idea. You’re dying. I should be monitoring symptoms, not...”
My protest died as Xavier kissed me.
Soft at first. Testing. Then harder when I opened for him.
I made a sound I’d deny later. Grabbed his shoulders. Felt muscle shift under scarred tissue as he drew me into his lap.
Rough palms slid under my shirt. Callused warmth against bare skin making me shiver.
I broke the kiss. “Xavier...”
He pressed his forehead to mine again. Desperation burned in his stare.
Please.
The word was right there in his expression. In the way his grip tightened on my hips. In the tremor running through his body.
Please. If I only have weeks, I want them with you.
The ache behind my lids got worse.
Two weeks. Maybe three.
And he wanted to spend them like this. With me. Instead of running, hiding, trying to squeeze out every last second of survival.
He wanted this.
