I didn’t answer.
Another knock. Softer this time.
“I’m fine,” I called out. My voice came out rough. “Just resting.”
The door opened anyway.
Of course it did. His room too.
Xavier stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light. He’d showered since this afternoon, hair still damp, thermal shirt replaced by a plain black t-shirt.
Hours ago, Hellhound and Havoc had carried him inside. Limp. Unconscious.
They’d laid him on this bed. I’d monitored his vitals for twenty minutes. Pulse, pupils, breathing, until his eyes opened like nothing had happened.
Then he’d gotten up. Showered. Walked out as though his brain hadn’t misfired hard enough to knock him unconscious.
Now he stood there looking perfectly fine.
He looked good.
He always looked good. That was part of the problem.
He came inside. Closed the door behind him. Crossed to where I sat on the bed with the laptop and settled beside me.
Close enough that our thighs touched.
I wanted to pull away. Wanted to maintain distance. Keep the walls up.
I didn’t move.
Xavier studied my face in the laptop’s glow. His brow furrowed with concern.
“How are you feeling?” I asked. Deflecting. But also genuinely worried, this afternoon’s seizure had been violent. “Any lingering symptoms? Headache? Confusion?”
He shook his head. Held up three fingers against his thigh.
Pain level three. Better than this morning’s four.
“Good. That’s good.” I kept my voice clinical. Professional. “You should still take it easy tonight. No strenuous activity. Rest as much as possible for a little while.”
Xavier’s eyes narrowed slightly. He reached for the notepad on the nightstand. Scribbled something. Turned it toward me.
You’ve been avoiding me. Why?
My stomach knotted. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been researching. Medical protocols for seizure management, potential complications from...”
He wrote again. Underlined it twice.
Don’t lie. Please.
The “please” broke something in my chest.
I looked away. Stared at the dark window. “You remembered a woman. Maeve. What if she’s... what if you’re married? What if I’m...”
I couldn’t finish the sentence.
The notepad rustled. Xavier wrote for longer this time. His handwriting was steady despite this afternoon’s intention tremor. Finally, he turned it toward me.
