We crash off the bed in a tangle of limbs and fury. He gets one punch in—catches me in the jaw hard enough to make stars explode across my vision—before I slam him back against the floor and pin him with my weight. My ribs scream in protest but I ignore it, using size and sobriety to keep him down.
"I'm not doing this with you," I snarl, forearm across his chest. "I'm not watching you destroy yourself. Not watching you destroy us. So you're going to fix it, Xavier. You're going to sober up, you're going to apologize, you're going to get our girl back. Or you're going to lose me."
"It doesn't matter." His voice breaks, all the fight draining out of him in an instant. "None of it matters because I already lost her. I already—" He makes a sound that's halfway between a laugh and a sob. "I'm already losing the love of my life. What's one more person?"
The words hit me harder than his punch did.
I shove him down harder, making his head thunk against the floor. "It's your fault," I say, and I mean for it to be harsh but it comes out almost gentle. "You did this, Xavier. You're the one who kicked her out. You're the one who said those things. You're the one who's been hiding up here instead of fixing it."
"I can't—" Tears are streaming down his face now, cutting tracks through weeks of grime. "I can't fix it. I destroyed her. You didn't see her face, Zay. You didn't see what I did to her."
"You're right. I didn't see her face." I ease my weight off him slightly. "But I saw her after. Saw her sitting outside that clubhouse looking like someone had scooped out her insides. Saw her at the safe house packing her stuff with hands thatwouldn't stop shaking. Saw her ride away like she had nothing left to live for."
He flinches like I've struck him.
"And you know what else I saw?" I continue, quieter now. "I saw someone who still loves you. Even after everything you said. Even after you ripped her apart in front of everyone. She still loves you so much it's destroying her."
"How do you know?—"
"Because she asked me to take care of you." My voice cracks. "When she was leaving, when she was at her lowest, she told me to go back and take care of you. To be the friend you needed. That's not someone who stopped loving you, Xavier. That's someone who loves you so much she wants you taken care of even when you've broken her."
He turns his face away, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
I sit back, finally letting him go. My side is definitely bleeding again—I can feel the wetness soaking through the bandage—but it doesn't matter. This matters. Getting through to him matters.
"I love her too," I say finally. "So does Asher. We're all in this together, remember? That's what we agreed to. That's what she wanted—all of us. And you threw it away because you were hurt and scared and too proud to see past your own pain."
"She lied to me for weeks?—"
"She was terrified." I say it again because apparently he needs to hear it multiple times. "She killed your brother in self-defense and then she was terrified to tell you because she knew—she fucking knew—that you'd react exactly the way you did. And she was right, Xavier. She was completely, devastatingly right."
He's quiet for a long moment, just breathing, just existing in the wreckage we've made of his bedroom. Finally: "What do I do?"
"You sober up." I push myself to my feet, wincing at the pull in my ribs. "You shower. You eat something. You get yourself functional. And then you grovel."
"She won't?—"
"You don't know what she will or won't do until you try." I head for the door, leaving him on the floor surrounded by broken glass and empty bottles. "But I'll tell you what I know. I know that if you don't at least try to fix this, if you let her go without fighting for her, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. And I know that I won't be around to watch that. So fix it, Xavier. Or lose me too."
I make it to the hallway before I have to brace against the wall, the adrenaline finally crashing completely. My side is on fire, my jaw is swelling from where he hit me, and every breath feels like it costs something.
Asher's at the bottom of the stairs, first aid kit in hand. "You're bleeding again."
"Yeah." I make my way down carefully. "Worth it though."
"Is he?—"
"He's a mess. But he heard me. Whether he actually does anything about it..." I shrug, then immediately regret it as pain shoots through my ribs. "That's on him."
Asher guides me back to the kitchen, sits me down, starts unwrapping the blood-soaked bandage. "You need to take better care of yourself."
"Says the man who lives on coffee and cigarettes."
"That's different."
"How?"
He doesn't answer, just works in silence, cleaning the wound again, applying fresh gauze and bandage with those precise, careful movements that somehow manage to be both clinical and caring.
