“I’ve got it.” I reached for the heater. “Really appreciate it, but I need to sleep. Now.”
“But Mademoiselle, the outlet…”
“Is fine. Bernard. The heater. Please.”
I held out my hands, deliberate. Final.
He huffed. Muttered something in French that definitely wasn’t complimentary. But he handed over the heater.
Heavy. Old. The kind with glowing orange coils that probably violated six safety codes.
Perfect.
“Thank you. Really. You’re a lifesaver.”
“The rent,” he said. “It is due.”
“I know. I’ll have it tomorrow.”
Another lie. I had no idea where rent was coming from. But that was tomorrow’s problem.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed, already turning away. “Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle.”
I shut the entrance. Locked it. Chain. Deadbolt. Everything.
Leaned against it, exhaling hard. My hands shook on the space heater.
Xavier watched from the bed. Still tense. Still ready to fight a landlord he couldn’t see with weapons he didn’t have.
Still positioned to shield me.
“Stand down, soldier.” I carried the heater to the bed, plugging it near the mattress. “Crisis averted.”
The coils glowed orange. Warmth, real warmth, started radiating. First genuine heat since I’d dragged him inside.
I moved back to the kitchen area, needing space, needing distance from the intensity of his focus. Filled two mugs with instant coffee, strong enough to strip paint. Found bread, cheese, the last of the cold cuts. Actual food instead of soup.
My hands moved automatically while my brain kept circling back to the feel of his skin under my palm, the way his pulse had jumped when I touched his wrist.
Stop it. He’s a patient. An amnesiac fugitive. Not, whatever my body seemed to think he was.
I sank onto the edge of the mattress with the food, suddenly exhausted. Everything hurt. My skull throbbed. My shoulders screamed. The cut on my temple pulled when I moved.
Xavier’s hand found my wrist again.
Gentle this time. Not grabbing. Not warning.
Just holding.
His thumb brushed across the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. My pulse jumped, he had to feel it, had to know what that touch did to me.
I looked at him. Those dark irises still watching. Still calculating. But something underneath, concern, maybe. Or gratitude I wasn’t sure he could name. Or something else entirely.
My breath hitched.
“I’m okay.” Rough. “Just need coffee. And food. And about twelve hours of sleep I’m not going to get.”
His thumb brushed across my knuckles. Deliberate. Questioning.
