His fingers trace idle patterns on my back, the touch light through the fabric of my t-shirt.“Morning,” he replies, voice rough with sleep.“How are you feeling?”
It’s a loaded question after yesterday.I consider it seriously before answering.
“Better than I have any right to,” I admit.“Considering.”
His hand stills momentarily on my back, then resumes its gentle movement.“Delayed shock is a thing.Don’t be surprised if it hits you later.”
I nod against his chest, knowing he’s right.I’ve seen it often enough in the ER.Patients who walk in calmly after horrific accidents, only to collapse hours later when the adrenaline finally drains away.
“I need to call my mom,” I say, remembering my promise to my father.“She’s probably worried sick.”
“Probably,” he agrees.His hand moves to my hair, fingers threading through the strands with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.“You hungry?I could make coffee while you call her.”
The normality of the offer is so domestic, so ordinary after the extraordinary events of yesterday, that it makes me smile against his chest.“That would be great.”
Neither of us moves immediately, reluctant to break this bubble of peace.Finally, I push myself up, looking down at him properly for the first time this morning.His hair is tousled from sleep, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen it.The dangerous enforcer of yesterday is hidden beneath layers of warmth that I suspect few people get to see.
“What?”he asks, noting my scrutiny.
“Just…” I shake my head slightly, not sure how to articulate what I’m feeling.“This.Us.It’s not what I expected.”
A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.“What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit.“But not this… ease.”
He reaches up, brushing his knuckles gently against my cheek.The gesture is achingly tender.“It surprised me too,” he confesses quietly.
The admission feels significant, a vulnerability from a man who shows so little of it to the world.I turn my face slightly, pressing a kiss to his palm.His eyes darken at the contact, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remains.
“Coffee,” he reminds himself, voice rougher now.“And your mom.”
I nod, reluctantly pulling away.He rises in one fluid movement, stretching muscles that bunch and flex beneath his shirt.I allow myself to appreciate the view unashamedly, earning a knowing smirk as he catches me looking.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” he says, retrieving his jeans from where he’d draped them over my desk chair last night.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, noting several missed calls from my parents and Samantha.Guilt twists in my stomach.I should have called them last night, let them know I was okay.I send a quick text to my sister, promising to call later, then dial my mother’s number as I head to the bathroom.
She answers on the first ring.“Xavier?Baby, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I assure her, hearing the relief in her quick exhale.“Sorry I didn’t call last night.It was… a long day.”
“Your father told me what happened,” she says, voice tight with controlled emotion.“He said Zach was there.That he helped.”
I pause, toothbrush halfway to my mouth.“He was.He did.”
There’s a brief silence, then, “Is he still there?With you?”
The question carries no judgment, just maternal concern and something else.Understanding, perhaps.
“Yes,” I admit, seeing no point in evasion.“He stayed the night.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Good,” she says finally.“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
I rest my forehead against the bathroom door, unexpectedly moved by her acceptance.“Thanks, Mom.”
“Your father and I would like to see you today, if you’re up for it,” she continues.“Maybe dinner?Both of you, if Zach is available.”
