Right. Concussion.
I touched the spot gingerly, found the scab crusted over. At least it had stopped bleeding.
Xavier made a sharp sound, half exhale, half protest. His hand reached for my arm like he’d pull me back down.
I batted it away. “Stay.”
He scowled.
Good. Emotions other than blank watchfulness meant his fever was down.
I swung my legs off the bed, bare feet hitting freezing floor. My breath fogged instantly. Apparently the warmth only existed where Xavier was.
Speaking of which...
The radiator sat silent in the corner. Dead. Again.
Fantastic.
I crossed to it, gave it a solid kick. It sputtered, clanked, wheezed pathetically. A thin stream of lukewarm air hissed from the vents.
“Thanks for nothing,” I muttered.
Behind me, fabric rustled. I spun.
Xavier had pushed himself upright, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. Pale, jaw tight with pain, but sitting. Planning to stand.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He looked at me. Just looked. And I saw the calculation there, how far to the bathroom, how fast he could move, whether his body would obey.
“You’ll pass out before you reach it.” I grabbed the kettle, filled it at the sink. “Lie down.”
He didn’t move.
I slammed the kettle onto the stove, turned the burner on, crossed back to the bed. Put my hand flat on his bare chest, skin warm and solid under my palm, muscle shifting beneath my fingers, his heart beating steady and strong enough that I felt it throb through my hand, and pushed.
He went down. Not because I was strong enough to move him. Because he let me.
The distinction mattered.
“Good boy,” I said, dry as dust.
Something flashed in his gaze. Not anger. Something darker. Something that made my skin prickle. Something that sent heat spiraling through me.
I pulled my hand back like he’d burned me. My palm still tingled where I’d touched him.
I grabbed the makeshift IV pole, checked the bag. Nearly empty. The antibiotics had run through while we slept. Hours, based on the angle of pale light filtering through the covered window. Late afternoon, maybe early evening.
We’d been out cold for most of the day.
I detached the empty bag, pulled a fresh one from the medical supplies piled on the floor. Xavier watched every movement, tracking with predatory precision.
“This needs to go back in.” I held up the IV line.
He pulled his arm away.
“Don’t be difficult.”
