CHAPTER 7. TOUCH #3
But it’s too late—laughter’s already creeping up my throat, and once it starts, I can’t stop it. Xavier’s laughing harder now, which only makes it worse.
“Knock it off,” I whisper, breathless. But it’s useless.
We’re still laughing when a loud thud sounds from the roof above. The hatch is open.
And then everything turns to shit.
A guard’s red, puffy face appears over the edge—followed by meaty hands grabbing for the ladder.
“Freeze!”
“Xavier, are you down?” I shout, peering over the edge just as he hits the ground.
“I’m down! Come on, Newt!” he yells—right as the ladder jolts under me.
Metal screeches. My stomach drops.
I look up. The guard is shaking the ladder like he’s trying to throw me off.
My grip slips—and suddenly I’m falling.
It’s a fifteen-foot drop, and I hear Xavier scream my name just before the impact. Something gives under me, breaking the fall. The breath is knocked clean out of my lungs. Pain spikes through my back, but I’m alive.
I blink. I’ve landed in that spindly bush—nothing but dry branches.
“Newt!” Xavier is at my side in an instant.
I groan, the world spinning. “Fuck…”
Shouts echo from the roof—angry, panicked.
“Are you okay?” Xavier slaps my cheeks lightly, trying to bring me back. Everything’s a blur. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through the pain. I’m alive—that’s the main thing. And, I think, mostly unhurt. I shift a little, testing my limbs.
“Ugh…” I mutter, starting to sit up.
“Newt, don’t—don’t get up. I’ll call an ambulance,” Xavier says, his face too pale, too close. I shake my head.
“I think I’m fine. The bush broke my fall.”
I sit up, listening to my body—and yeah, I think I’m really okay.
Xavier’s still kneeling beside me, his brow tight with something that looks a lot like panic.
His hands find my face again, fingers cold as they brush my cheeks.
The gesture is weirdly gentle, and despite everything, the butterflies in my stomach kick off their usual macarena routine.
“I think we need to run,” I say, nodding toward the roof. “The guards are gone. But they’ll be down here soon.”
That doesn’t seem to faze Xavier. Instead, he says, “Can you stand, or should I carry you?”
“I can stand,” I say, and with his help, I get to my feet—though my legs are a little shaky. Probably just the adrenaline.
Before I can argue, Xavier pulls my arm over his shoulder, wrapping his own around my waist like it’s not even a question.
“Come on,” he says, and we move quickly toward the highway.
Every step sends a fresh jolt of pain through my skull, but otherwise, I’m surprisingly okay. Xavier keeps glancing over, probably checking that I’m not about to faceplant.
“I’m okay,” I say, forcing a small smile.
He doesn’t answer—just keeps going.
We slip through the quiet streets, our hurried footsteps the only sound. I glance back a few times, half-expecting the guards to come after us, but there’s no sign of them. At the intersection, our taxi’s still there, idling by the curb.
Xavier all but shoves me into the backseat before climbing in after me. The driver twists around, eyeing us warily.
“He alive back there?”
“Yes. Just drive us back,” Xavier says.
The engine roars, and we swing into a U-turn.
The ride home is quiet—well, mostly. Xavier keeps sneaking glances at me every thirty seconds, his jaw tight, fingers drumming against his knee.
I can practically feel the anxiety rolling off him, but I just grin back.
He looks ridiculously pale with worry, and honestly, knowing he cares that much is doing something weird to my chest. I have to remind myself not to enjoy it too much—especially after my little erection incident under the stairs, which I hope we’ve both mentally erased.
When the taxi pulls up on Hickory Road, Xavier pays the driver and helps me out. The walk up to the apartment is anything but graceful—I knock over the umbrella stand by the door, then the coat rack for good measure. Thankfully, our only neighbors, the Waverlys, are heavy sleepers.
Once we’re inside, Xavier finally lets go of me. I sigh, relieved to be home, and flick on the living room light. The bulb sputters a sickly yellow, flickers once, then dies with a dramatic pop.
Xavier and I snort at the same time, annoyed. Then we freeze. A beat of silence—and we crack up, our laughter echoing off the walls of the dark apartment.
Still grinning, we pull out our phones and switch on the flashlights.
“Seriously? Even the damn light bulb’s had enough?” I mutter, heading toward the kitchen to try the switch there. Nothing.
“Must be the fuses,” Xavier says from behind me. “And the box is in the Waverlys’ apartment, so we’re stuck like this till morning.”
I try to sit, but the second I lower myself into the chair, a sharp, electric pain rips through my left shoulder. I curse under my breath and grab at it.
“You okay?” Xavier says, already kneeling in front of me. “Should we call a doctor?”
I glance at him. He’s frowning again—real concern in his eyes—and I can’t help smiling a little. Wow. Is Xavier Ormond actually suggesting we call a doctor? The same guy who won’t take an aspirin unless he’s knocking on death’s door?
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “If I don’t puke or pass out in the next hour, we’re good.”
“Okay,” he says—but somehow, that seems to worry him even more. “Need help?” He tips his chin toward the ceiling. “Getting upstairs?”
I shake my head. “Can’t sleep yet. Gotta wait—just in case I actually gave myself a concussion this time.”
“Okay.” Xavier gets up, pulls the battered case file from his pocket, and tosses it onto the table. “Then let’s eat.”
“Eat? In the middle of the night?” I can’t help smirking. “Xavier, are you feeling alright? What happened to your precious circadian rhythms?”
“We need something to kill time.” He raises an eyebrow, all mock innocence. “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”
For half a second, his gaze drops—to my lips. Then flicks back up.
My breath catches.
Heat flares up my neck. Why did that sound so—hot? Is he flirting with me? No, that’s impossible. I probably do have a concussion.
I get up and turn away, heading for the cupboards, suddenly very invested in making tea. Anything to hide whatever the hell my face is doing. Avoiding his gaze feels like the safest option.
By the time the tea’s ready, my face is back under control. We settle in, sipping from our mugs as the conversation drifts—from the Rishetor case to the sheer absurdity of our night—until somehow we end up on Ernest and Monica.
For once, it doesn’t feel like we’re world-famous detectives or two people always caught in the middle of something life-or-death. It’s just…us. Like we’re normal. Just two friends talking about their annoying relatives.
By 4:30, Xavier’s yawns start breaking through the conversation. He goes quieter, his eyes staying shut a little longer each time.
“Go to bed,” I tell him.
“I’m not tired,” he mumbles, blinking hard.
I snort. “Sure, and I’m the Pope.”
He ignores me, but I catch the way his head tips slightly, the fight against exhaustion starting to slip. I don’t push. It’s almost nice, knowing he’s trying to stay awake for me.
At 5:10, I finally cave. “I’m showering,” I announce, standing up.
Xavier, slouched in his chair, straightens up. “Try not to concuss yourself again, please.”
I roll my eyes and leave him in the kitchen, my phone flashlight guiding the way through the dark. When I reach the bathroom, I flick the switch out of habit—even though I already know it won’t do a damn thing.
I lock the door, wash my hands, then strip off my jeans, tossing them into the laundry pile. I grab the hem of my sweater and start to pull—
Pain.
A sharp, electric stab tears through my left shoulder. My vision whites out, the shock of it knocking the breath clean from my lungs.
I grip the cold porcelain sink, teeth clenched, willing myself to breathe. Okay. Not great.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait it out. When I finally blink back at my reflection, I look like hell. Or maybe that’s just the flashlight playing tricks.
I draw another slow breath through my nose. Alright. New plan—move slower.
I ease the sweater up, leaving it bunched around my neck, my left arm still caught in the sleeve, and step toward the mirror.
Hooking a finger under the strap of my undershirt, I tug it down just enough to see.
Fresh bruises bloom across my shoulder, dark against my skin and layered over old scars.
I press my fingers into the largest one and curse under my breath.
Fuck.
Feels like I might’ve aggravated that nerve again—the one that started acting up after the Carver cut me. Thankfully, nothing seems broken, but…yeah, this is going to suck for a while.
I hear footsteps stop just outside the door. Then Xavier’s voice comes, muffled:
“You okay?”
I glance back at the mirror—my own tired face staring back at me.
“I’m fine. Just bruised my shoulder, I think,” I call out, trying to sound casual. But something in my voice must give me away, because a second later, Xavier says,
“Let me see.”
For a moment, I think about telling him to go away—but knowing Xavier, that would just make him more persistent. Easier to let him check and get it over with. I open the door.
He steps in without hesitation, nudging me back into the room.
“It’s fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Just a bruise.”
Xavier doesn’t wait for permission. His cool hands slip under my half-removed sweater, sending a shiver down my spine.
He pulls it off over my head, fingers skimming the back of my neck—making my heart stutter—then down my left arm, his touch trailing from shoulder to forearm.
The sweater drops to the floor. Before I can react, he grabs the hem of my undershirt and lifts that too, slipping it off without a word.
In the dim light, the whole thing feels too intimate. Our faces are inches apart. His breath warms my skin, and something tightens in my chest—a mix of nerves and something dangerously close to arousal. I want to say something, stop him, break the moment—but nothing comes out.
“Can I have your phone?” Xavier nods toward it.
I hand it over.
He lifts the flashlight and guides it slowly over my skin. The beam drifts across my shoulder, picking out the bruises one by one.
“Xavier, I’m fine,” I say, my whole body wired like a live fuse.
He hums, unconvinced—almost annoyed, like he knows I’m lying. His hand settles lightly on my collarbone, holding me still as he examines the worst of them. His fingers press into the tender skin, probing gently.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“A little,” I lie, gritting my teeth as he circles behind me. His fingers brush my shoulder from the back, and a sharp breath slips out before I can stop it.
Xavier moves to face me again, concern etched across his features.
“Nothing’s broken,” I offer, aiming for casual—but it comes out too tight.
“Let me take you to the ER,” he says, frowning.
I shake my head. “I’m just sore. I swear, I’m fine.”
He watches me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. Then his eyes drop—and so do his hands—drifting lower to trace the scars the Carver left behind.
He moves slowly, like he’s reading them. Mapping each line. Trying to understand.
The phone’s glow catches his face—angles sharp, shadows deep in his eyes.
Standing there half-naked, I suddenly feel way too exposed.
And then, once again, before I can stop it, my mind slips somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.
For a second, I imagine it’s not his fingers but his mouth—his lips brushing against my skin. The thought comes out of nowhere, uninvited, and sends heat curling low in my stomach.
By the time I register it, my heart’s already pounding. It takes everything not to flinch.
A faint buzz breaks the silence. I blink hard, chasing the thought from my head.
“Newt.”
“Yeah?” I snap back to the present, my throat dry.
Xavier watches me for a second, then silently hands back my phone.
The screen lights up with a message from an unknown number:
It was so nice to see you! Would you like to grab coffee today? — Katie
My heart skips a beat. Not because I’m happy to get a text from Katie at five a.m.—I’m not—but because the timing sucks. It feels weird that Xavier saw it.
When I glance up, he’s already heading for the door.
“Xavier,” I call after him, not even sure what I want to say—just not ready for him to go.
He stops. “Yes?” His eyes meet mine for half a second, then shift away, landing somewhere near the floor.
I hesitate but say nothing.
“If the pain gets worse, wake me,” he says quietly.
I nod. Then he walks out, and his footsteps fade into the hall.