I sink back into the seat, the hurt spreading slow and cold. I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew guilt had its hooks in him. I just didn’t realize how deep.
“Right,” I say quietly.
He glances at me then, eyes searching my face, something like regret flickering in them. “It’s not that there’s nothing there, Valentina.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. I don’t want crumbs. I don’t want half-admissions thrown into the car and then retracted in the hospital parking lot. “Just drive.”
He closes his mouth.
We spend the rest of the drive in silence.
The hospital rises out of the concrete like a sterile fortress, windows reflecting gray sky. Asher parks. The engine shuts off. The quiet between us shifts from suffocating to fragile.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, fingers clumsy. Asher gets out first, coming around to my side, opening my door like he always does. For a second, I expect his hand—his usual brief, grounding touch on my elbow.
It doesn’t come.
I step out on my own.
We walk through the automatic doors and into the too-bright lobby, the disinfectant smell clawing at my throat. The elevator hums as we rise, each floor making my pulse slam harder. My palms go damp. My stomach twists. I don’t want to see him like this. I’m not ready to see him like this.
Because the last time I saw Xavier awake… I was supposed to be named his First Lady.
And instead he was getting shot.
The guilt presses hard against my ribs. If I’d been there. If I hadn’t run. If I’d just accepted what he wanted from the beginning—if I’d chosen him when he chose me—maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed with machines doing half the work his body can’t.
The dread builds until it buzzes in my teeth.
When we step into his room, it hits all at once. Neutral walls. Blinking monitors. Tubes snaking from his arms. Xavier, still and pale in a way he has never been around me.
My breath stutters. Guilt and what-ifs crash over me so hard my knees nearly give.
My feet feel glued to the tile, but something heavier pushes me forward—shame, longing, responsibility, maybe all three tangled in ways I can’t untangle. He deserved better than machines keeping time for him. He deserved better than me running when he reached for me.
I swallow hard and force my foot to move. Asher stays by the door, as I push myself step by step until I am standing in front of his bed.
I turn to tell Asher to come with me, but then I catch it—just for a second. The way his face changes when he looks at Xavier. The way guilt slides over his features like a shadow. The way his throat moves like he’s swallowing broken glass.
“I’ll… give you some time,” he says quietly.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I do,” he cuts in sharply, biting his inner lip for a moment before exhaling.
There’s a rawness to his voice that makes my chest ache. I nod. He steps backward, toward the door.
“Call me if you need anything,” he adds.
“I will.”
Our eyes meet one last time. There’s a thousand things we’re not saying, floating in the air between us. Then he slips out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Before I can think about running, I force myself to talk.
“Hey,” I say, my voice too shaky, too small. I clear my throat and try again. “Hey, asshole.”
The nickname feels wrong and right at the same time. My eyes sting.
