Her eyes soften.
“He can wake up any moment now.”
Can. Not will.
“The worst is over,” she adds, and something in my chest loosens—just a fraction. “He’s through surgery. His vitals have stabilized. The next several hours will tell us more, but he’s fighting. And from what I understand about your brother, he’s not the type to give up.”
She doesn’t know Xavier. Doesn’t know what he’s survived, what he’s built, what he’s done.
But she’s right about one thing—he’s not the type to give up.
Not on anything.
Not on anyone.
Not even on a half-feral kid with blood under his fingernails, ten years ago.
“Can I sit with him?”
“Of course.”
She slips out, shutting the door quietly behind her.
And then it’s just me and Xavier.
The room feels too small for the weight in my chest.
Too bright for the reality of him lying there, barely breathing.
The machines beep their steady rhythm—beep, beep, beep—counting his heartbeats like they’re numbered.
I drag the chair close.
So close my knees bump the metal frame of the bed.
So close I can see the individual threads in the hospital gown, count the wires trailing from his body like puppet strings, watch the slow rise and fall of his chest and try to convince myself it’s enough.
I lower myself into the chair like my bones might shatter.
My hand hovers over his. Hesitates. Trembles.
And then I let my fingers close gently around his palm, feeling the warmth of his skin, the proof of blood still moving through his veins.
He’s here. Alive. Present.
That alone nearly undoes me.
“Hey,” I whisper. My voice sounds like a stranger’s—rough, wrecked. “Hey, X.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t squeeze my hand. Doesn’t open his eyes and tell me to stop being dramatic.
A laugh breaks out of me—small, ugly, collapsing into something that sounds like a sob before I swallow it back down.
“You look like shit, man.”
Still nothing. Just the beep of monitors. The hiss of machines.
“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” I choke out. “That’s my job. Not yours. It’s always been my job—take the hit, take the bullet, take whatever’s coming so you don’t have to. You always step in front of bullets meant for me. Since we were kids. Since Marcus. And now I’m sitting here thinking maybe this time you shouldn’t have.”
