CHAPTER 8. TANGLED #4
“Okay, here are my picks—A Walk to Remember, Lucky Number Slevin, and P.S. I Love You,” I say, scrolling through the queue. “We’ve seen most of the others. And I’m not in the mood for horror, fantasy, or anything made in the last decade.”
Xavier stays quiet, so I glance over at him.
“Pick whatever you want,” he says, watching me like I’ve said something fascinating. “I don’t really care.”
My skin prickles under his gaze. “You sure? You usually care a lot.”
His eyes linger on me a beat too long. “Not tonight.”
“Okay,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. “Lucky Number Slevin it is.”
I press play, feeling his eyes still on me, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. Whatever he’s thinking about, he keeps it to himself.
While the movie loads, I stab a hefty chunk of chicken with my fork and shove it into my mouth. And—holy hell. The fricassee’s even better than it looks. I’ve never tasted anything like it—creamy, fresh, savory, tangy—it’s incredible.
“Xa-vier,” I mumble around a mouthful, turning to look at him. “You’re a liar. You—”
“Try not to choke, Newt,” Xavier cuts in with a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“—you can actually cook!”
“I told you I can,” he says, smirking. “How else do you think I keep all these muscles?”
“I figured you just ate out all the time.”
Xavier blinks, like he’s turning that over. Then his smile goes crooked, a tipsy glint sparking in his eyes. “Well, I do love eating out. So if you want, I can do that too.”
There’s mischief in his voice. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
I stare at him, stunned, my face going up in flames. Did he really just say that? Was he flirting with me? Am I reading into it? Because there’s no way he knows what eating out means—at least not like that. Not between guys. Right?
I look away and stab at the chicken again, trying to play it cool. “This is seriously good,” I mumble, praying he can’t see how red I am.
“Don’t get used to it,” Xavier snorts—but he sounds a little too pleased. “Special occasions only.”
I throw him a quick look. “And today’s a special occasion how?”
Xavier meets my eyes for a second. Then says, a bit too fast, “I’m making up for last night. For all the bruises you got.”
I smile, still flushed. “That’s very sweet of you.”
And then—before I even realize what I’m doing—I reach out and brush a curl off his forehead.
Xavier quickly looks away, and I swear his cheeks go red.
He takes a long sip of wine, grabs his plate, and focuses on the screen like his life depends on it.
***
Turns out Lucky Number Slevin is actually a pretty solid thriller, so Xavier and I end up watching it in near-total silence. But as soon as it ends, Xavier starts ranting about how stupid the criminals’ scam name was.
“‘Kansas City Shuffle’? What does that even mean?”
We’re both pretty drunk by now, down to our last bottle of wine, and I really don’t want to call it a night—so I put on A Walk to Remember.
It takes less than twenty minutes for me to start regretting that decision.
The movie is slow, painfully sentimental, and relentlessly depressing.
For the first half hour, Xavier’s clearly bored out of his mind—fidgeting next to me, topping off our wine when we haven’t even finished the last glasses, casting me looks like he’s begging me to turn it off but doesn’t want to say it out loud.
I don’t respond. I don’t even like the movie, but I like sitting here beside him.
Feeling the warmth radiating off his body.
Even if I couldn’t care less about what’s on the screen.
By the time the movie ends, the wine and chicken are long gone, and I’m sure it’s time to call it a night.
But then Xavier glances at me and says, “Wanna watch another?”
I blink at him, surprised. I’m tired, definitely ready to crash—but instead, I say yes.
We take a break, head into the kitchen to microwave some popcorn. Xavier disappears for a second, then comes back holding a bottle of whiskey, shaking it in front of me with a teasing smile.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I laugh.
He just looks at me for a beat. “Maybe.” Then turns and walks back into the living room.
And for once, it feels like we’ve left the chaos behind—the journalists, the conspiracies, the endless guessing games.
Now it’s just popcorn and whiskey chased with tea, another melodrama (P.S. I Love You), and the two of us sitting cross-legged on the carpet, the coffee table shoved off to the side.
To my surprise, Xavier doesn’t fidget this time. He sits through half the movie in silence, his whole mood shifted—gloomy, withdrawn.
I keep stealing glances at him, wondering if I should ask what’s wrong.
Outside, it’s fully dark. Through the curtains, I can see snow drifting past the streetlamps. The soft glow spills into the room, casting everything in a gentle, silver haze.
When I finally decide to say something, I shift to face him—our knees brush.
“Are you okay?” I ask, not really expecting a straight answer.
Xavier turns to me. “No.”
My pulse skips. His face is solemn, sad. I reach out, sliding an arm around his shoulder—and he doesn’t pull away.
“I can’t shake the feeling,” he says quietly. “From when you fell off the roof yesterday.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my chest tight.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he says, eyes flicking away. I can see how hard it is for him to admit it. “Kept thinking about it. What if you’d died.”
“Jesus, Xavier,” I whisper. I shift closer and wrap both arms around him, holding him properly now.
He doesn’t pull away—just leans in, tucking his face into the crook of my neck.
So that’s what it was. The dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the anxious glances and out-of-place apologies. He’s been worried. About me.
“I’m okay,” I murmur, running one hand down his back, the other brushing gently through his hair.
“For now,” he mutters against my skin. “You’re just this…temporary mix of carbs, calcium, phosphorus, and iron called Newt Doherty. And yesterday, because of me, you almost stopped existing.”
I can’t help it—I smile.
“It wasn’t that big of a fall,” I say, trying to keep it light. “And I’m not planning to die on you anytime soon. I promise.”
I pause, still holding him, then gently tug him back so I can see his face. He avoids my gaze, but even in the dim light, I can tell how shaken he still is.
He pulls away, lets go of me, and turns toward the screen again. His shoulders are tense, his face quiet and unreadable in the glow of the TV. I watch him for a few seconds, my mind foggy, warm with alcohol—then lean over and rest my head on his shoulder.
Xavier stiffens at first, but then he wraps an arm around me, pulling me in.
The smell of him makes my whole body relax. A soft silence settles over us, a little heavy, but not uncomfortable. The whiskey’s in full effect now—everything’s loose around the edges.
When the woman in the movie gets another letter from her dead husband, I yawn, eyes slipping closed.
***
I only realize I’ve dozed off when I open my eyes again. The room is even darker now, except for the soft blue glow of the screen.
Xavier’s still there, eyes closed, holding me—both of us half-sprawled on the floor, backs against the couch. I glance at the clock—1:30. The movie must’ve ended a while ago, leaving us asleep in each other’s arms.
He’s still out, looking unusually peaceful—hair mussed across the couch cushion, face relaxed, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
For a moment, I just watch him, not wanting to break the spell. Xavier Ormond, actually asleep. Like a regular person. He’s snoring, barely. It’s weirdly sweet. I almost want to take a picture.
“Xavier,” I say, giving his thigh a gentle nudge. “Xavier…”
“Mm,” he mumbles groggily, eyes fluttering open. His face shifts quickly, suddenly alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Movie’s over, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
“Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
I stand, instantly missing the warmth of him around me, and stretch out my stiff limbs while he blinks himself awake. After a moment, Xavier pushes himself up off the floor, swaying slightly once he’s on his feet.
I reach out and steady him by the elbow, guiding him through the dark apartment—from the living room, past the kitchen, and down the shadowed hallway to his bedroom.
In the dark, I guide Xavier to the bed, navigating by the faint outlines of furniture. He sits down without a word, unmoving.
“Get some sleep,” I say, gently.
I give his shoulder a light pat and turn to go.
“Newt.” His voice stops me—quiet, almost hesitant.
I turn back. He’s on his feet again, just a step away.
“Yes?”
We stand there for a beat, eyes locked in the dimness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—like he’s carved from stone. Then, suddenly, he steps forward. His fingers close around my wrist, cold against my skin.
“Stay,” he says. “Please.”
There’s something new in his voice. Raw. Unfamiliar. It sounds like pain.
And just like that, breathing becomes hard.
That word—please. Coming from him, it undoes me.
I don’t even remember if I answer, because everything after unfolds like a dream. I nod, take a few steps toward the bed, and watch as Xavier climbs in and shifts to the far side—leaving space for me.
I pull off my sweater and jeans and slip in beside him.
Without a word, he lifts the comforter and drapes it over both of us, then pulls me close.
Cold hands settle around my waist. A chilled cheek presses against my temple.
My heart pounds—off-beat and loud in the quiet—as a shaky kind of happiness takes hold of me.
Xavier closes his eyes.
And in the dark, mine stay open just a little longer—then finally, they close too.