Xavier’s attention flicked to mine. Questioning.
“Said he’d been casting, and the wind caught it wrong. Buried a triple hook right above his ear.” Started on his other shoulder, working methodically. “Except the entry angle was all wrong for casting. And his buddy kept laughing.”
Almost-smile there. Corner of his mouth threatened to lift.
“Turns out the buddy had thrown it at him. On purpose. During an argument about whose turn it was to buy beer.” Rinsed the fabric, applied more soap. “They were in their sixties. Grown men fighting about beer money with fishing tackle as weapons.”
The almost-smile grew. Not quite reaching his features but warming the air between us.
“The best part? The buddy came to visit while we were extracting the hooks. Brought him a six-pack as an apology.” Started on his chest, careful around bandages. “Security had to escort him out because he tried to crack one open in the ER. Said if his friend couldn’t drink it, he would.”
Xavier’s chest moved. Silent laugh, maybe. Hard to tell without sound. But tension eased by degrees.
My touch gentled too. Following the lines of muscle, learning the map of old scars. Fingers moving without conscious thought, tracing damage I wanted to understand.
Caught myself. Pulled into professional efficiency.
“We see everything. Injuries from sex toys, from DIY home repairs gone wrong, from stupid bets. Guy who superglued his hand to his forehead trying to win fifty bucks. Another who got his head stuck in a Halloween decoration. A woman who...”
Stopped mid-sentence. Had traced down his torso while talking. Water catching on defined muscle. Scars layering over scars. The way his body looked under my touch.
Lost my train of thought completely.
“Who what?” The question came in gesture, his hand moving slightly, prompting.
“Right. Woman who tried to pierce her own belly button with a safety pin and nail gun.” Recovered. Sort of. My words came rougher than before. “Don’t ask. I still have nightmares.”
Kept washing. His arms next. Long limbs, fighter’s build. Each stroke mapping him in ways medical assessment never had. Learning textures, temperatures, the small reactions when I found tender spots.
He studied my face the whole time. Intent. Present. Actually listening to my rambling stories like they mattered.
Dangerous warmth bloomed in my ribs.
Kept talking while I worked. Story after story, the absurd parade of human stupidity that filled emergency rooms at three AM. The guy who’d gotten his head stuck in a railing trying to prove he could fit. The woman who’d glued fake eyelashes to her eyelids with industrial adhesive. The teenager who’d tried to pierce his own nipple with a thumbtack and was shocked, shocked, when it got infected.
Xavier studied my face while I talked, engaged in a way that raised goosebumps on my arms. Like he was really listening, really present, not just tolerating my rambling.
Each story earned small reactions. Raised eyebrows. The ghost of a smile. Once, his shoulders shook with silent laughter that made him wince, ribs protesting.
“Don’t rupture anything.” But I was grinning too. Couldn’t help it. “I just glued you together.”
Started lower, cleaning his ribs around the bandages. Traced the ladder of bone beneath muscle, feeling each careful breath, hyperaware of every inch I touched.
My rhythm had settled. The nervousness fading into comfortable motion, the stories flowing easier, his reactions grounding me.
Started to relax. Just slightly. Just enough to let my guard slip.
My grip tightened without meaning to.
“Everyone deserves someone who gives a damn. Who shows up. Who doesn’t leave them bleeding in alleys or ER waiting rooms or...”
Trailing off. Throat thick.
Xavier’s hand covered mine. Gentle pressure. There and then gone, so fast I might have imagined it.
Except I felt it. The warmth. The understanding in that brief contact.
Pressure built behind my eyes.
