Each time he went under before I could reach him, before the words could sink past whatever wall separated him from understanding.
“Stay conscious for five damn seconds. That’s all I need. Just five seconds so I know you’re still in there.”
Between his unpredictable surfaces, I worked methodically. Changed the IV bag when it ran low. Monitored the fever that spiked and dropped erratically. Checked his injuries obsessively, looking for fresh bleeding, signs of infection, anything that meant I was losing ground.
Everything that meant I was failing.
His vitals remained all over the place. Heart rate jumping between 110 and 140. Temperature swinging from 102 to 104. Blood pressure barely holding steady.
Kept adjusting the covers. Making sure he remained wrapped. The apartment was too cold. The radiator barely functional. His system too fragile after hypothermia to handle temperature swings.
“Textbook for nothing.” Making notes on the back of a receipt because that was apparently my life now. My handwriting was barely legible, exhaustion making the letters wobble. “Because why would anything about tonight be straightforward.”
The night blurred into routine. Heat compress. Check vitals. Change bandages. Monitor IV. Adjust covers. Wait for him to surface. Hold him down when he thrashed. Talk him through panic he couldn’t understand.
Repeat.
My frame moved automatically. My mind catalogued everything, tried to. But underneath, exhaustion pulled at me with relentless force, threatening to drag me under. My thoughts kept fragmenting. Losing track. Having to start counts over.
What time was it? How long had I been doing this?
Hours blurred together.
Tracked time by IV bag levels, bandage changes, fever cycles. The radiator cooperated sporadically, clanking, groaning, putting out weak warmth before dying again. The apartment remained cold. My breath fogged. Kept piling covers on Xavier, checking his core temperature, terrified the hypothermia would come back.
Between his brief awakenings, muscle memory learned him.
The calluses on his palms told stories I couldn’t read, fighter’s grip, rough and scarred. Knuckles broken and healed wrong, street fighting damage that spoke of violence older than tonight’s trauma. The way his breathing hitched slightly whenI touched certain areas, like his system remembered pain even when his mind was gone.
The steady thrum of pulse under my fingers became a rhythm I knew by heart.
Caught myself lingering. My thumb tracing a scar across his ribs, following the line of old damage. Wondering who’d put it there. Wondering how he’d survived it.
Realized I’d been touching him longer than necessary.
Pulled back. Focused on work.
“Clinical. Stay clinical. He’s a patient.”
A patient I was completely unqualified to treat. A patient who needed a hospital, a surgical team, someone who actually knew what the hell they were doing.
Did it again five minutes later. Fingertips gentle on his throat, checking pulse when I could have just counted the IV drip rate.
“So much for clinical. Outstanding professional boundaries, Clare.”
But I couldn’t stop. This wasn’t just medical care anymore. Hadn’t been since I dragged him inside. Maybe hadn’t been since I first saw him in that alley, bleeding out in the snow, and chose to stay instead of run.
The admission settled like a weight.
This was dangerous. Knew it was dangerous. Knew every touch blurred lines I shouldn’t cross, knew every moment spent keeping him alive tied me deeper to whatever hell he’d crawled out of.
Knew I was probably going to get him killed because I didn’t know what I was doing.
Didn’t stop the gentleness.
My shoulders screamed. Back ached. Palms cramping from hours of constant work. When had I last eaten? Slept? Sat down for more than thirty seconds?
My vision swam. Blinked hard, trying to clear it.
