It's not gentle. Not sweet. It's desperate and messy and probably inappropriate for a hospital hallway, but I need him to stop asking questions I can't answer. Need him to stop looking at me like I'm something fragile that might break, like he can see right through to all the darkness inside.
When I pull back, we're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"The last week has been a lot," I manage against his mouth, tasting coffee and mint on his lips. "Just let me make sure Xav is okay. That's all I need right now. Just let me focus on that."
He searches my face for a long moment, and I can see him wanting to push, wanting to demand real answers, wanting to dig until he finds whatever I'm hiding. But finally he nods slowly. "Okay."
"Thank you," I whisper, relief flooding through me.
"Mr. Cross?"
We both turn sharply. A doctor stands a few feet away—young, maybe thirty, with wire-rimmed glasses and a clipboard clutched in both hands. He's looking between us with obvious uncertainty about whether he's interrupting something.
"IsaiahCross?" the doctor clarifies, glancing down at his clipboard.
"Yeah, that's me," Zay confirms, stepping away from me, creating professional distance.
"I wanted to update you on Xavier's discharge plan," the doctor explains, flipping through papers. "He'll be released in two days. I'll need you to sign some paperwork and we'll go over home care instructions—physical therapy schedules, medication management, mobility assistance, wound care, the works."
"Two days?" I repeat, the words not quite processing. Two days suddenly feels both impossibly far away and terrifyingly close.
The doctor nods, offering a professional smile. "He's progressing remarkably well. Better than we expected, honestly. The movement returning to his toes is a very positive sign. We want to get him home, continue his recovery in a more comfortable environment. Hospital stays can actually impede healing after a certain point—the stress, the lack of proper sleep, the institutional environment."
"That's great," Zay responds, but he's looking at me when he says it, eyes searching my face for a reaction.
"If you could come with me?" the doctor continues, gesturing down the hallway. "This will take about thirty minutes. We have quite a bit to cover—medication interactions, physical therapy protocols, warning signs to watch for."
"Yeah, of course." Zay touches my elbow—light, careful, barely there. "You good?"
"Fine," I lie again, bending to retrieve the chips and Gatorade from where I dropped them. "I'll go give Xavier his snacks."
He holds my gaze for another heartbeat, like he's trying to read my mind, then follows the doctor down the corridor. Their voices fade into the general hospital noise—beeping machines, overhead pages, the constant shuffle of feet.
I'm left standing there with chips and Gatorade clutched in my hands like lifelines.
With Xavier coming home in two days, I won’t be able to hide in this hospital room anymore. Can't use his recovery as an excuse to avoid everyone and everything. Can't keep pretending the memories will go away if I just don't think about them.
Which means I have to go back to the real world where Talia is with the Vipers, where everyone's asking questions I can't answer, where the memories won't stop coming no matter how hard I try to push them down.
I lean back against the vending machine, close my eyes, take a deep breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs.
Get over it,I tell myself firmly.It was self-defense. He was going to hurt you. Worse than hurt you. You did what you had to do. Get. Over. It.
But the memories don't care about logic or justification or survival instinct. They don't care that I was defending myself, that it was him or me. They just keep playing on loop—the sound of the pipe connecting with his skull, the blood spreading darkand thick across wet concrete, the way his body went limp and crumpled, the rain washing pink rivulets down the alley.
Another deep breath that catches halfway. Then another.
You can do this. You have to do this. Xavier needs you. The club needs you. Get your shit together, Valentina.
I push off the vending machine, straighten my shoulders even though they feel like they're carrying concrete blocks, and head back to Xavier's room.
He's sitting up when I walk in, looking alert and concerned, brow furrowed. The afternoon light from the window cuts across the bed, highlighting how much weight he's lost, how pale he still is. "You okay? You were gone a while."
"Yeah, sorry. Ran into Zay." I hand him the chips, crack open my Gatorade—blue raspberry, tastes like chemicals and artificial sugar. "Doctor says you're being released in two days."
"I heard," he confirms, watching me carefully with those dark eyes that see too much. "That's good news, right?"
"Yeah. Great news." I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "You must be excited to get out of here. Get back to sleeping in a real bed, eating real food."
