CHAPTER 9. HINGE
“Mm-mm, Xavier. You just carried me across the threshold.”
I’m grinning. Xavier’s frowning.
He sets me down on the bed, but when he tries to pull away, I tighten my arms around his waist. Our faces are barely three inches apart—if that.
“Mmm, Xavier,” I breathe. “You smell like coffee. Were you worried?… Lie down…”
“I need to go,” Xavier mutters, trying to lean back, to free himself.
“Okay,” I say, but instead of letting him go, I push up, closing the space between us until our lips are just a breath apart.
Xavier’s expression shifts. Tightens.
“Newt,” he says hoarsely, almost a warning. “Let me go.”
“Okay.” I release him—but just as he starts to pull away, I flick my tongue out, grazing his lower lip. A challenge.
His eyes widen. He exhales sharply, frowning, but he doesn’t move. I keep smiling. Lean in. Kiss him once. Twice. A third time. Soft. Fleeting. Then my tongue traces the curve of his upper lip—
“Newt—”
I blink awake.
Faint gray light filters through the curtains. Slowly, the room takes shape—the outline of the wardrobe, the bed, the desk by the far wall. I shift slightly—and that’s when I feel him.
Xavier.
He’s still asleep, curled up against me, face buried in the crook of my neck, one leg tangled between mine. He’s warm and solid in my arms, his chest rising and falling against mine. My hands are under his shirt, palms resting on his bare back.
Without thinking, I rub his back gently, breathing in the warmth of him. His skin is damp with sweat.
For a while, I just lie there—listening to his breathing, feeling the weight of him against me.
Then I close my eyes and drift off again.
***
Morning comes too fast.
I wake up shivering—the warmth that held me through the night is gone. Blinking against the harsh sunlight, it hits me: this isn’t my room. I’m in Xavier’s bed. I turn over, reaching instinctively for the other side, but it’s empty. He’s gone.
I didn’t exactly expect to wake up still wrapped around him, but the cold stretch of sheets still catches me off guard.
And then—like a gust of wind—memories of last night come rushing back. Xavier, soft and vulnerable, admitting he was afraid of losing me. Us falling asleep on the living room floor. Him asking me to stay.
My stomach twists. My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I can’t believe I spent the whole night holding him.
The memory leaves a buzz of warmth in my chest, but it’s quickly followed by a tight, creeping panic.
He left early, without a word. Maybe he regretted it.
Maybe it was a drunken mistake, and now that the sun’s up, he doesn’t know how to look me in the eye.
Maybe I scared him off—too eager, too ready to be close.
I sigh and flop back onto the pillows—instantly regretting it. They, like everything else in this bed, reek of Xavier. His clean, citrusy scent clings to the sheets, sinks into my skin, and that traitorous flutter in my chest only gets worse.
With a groan, I sit up again and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over my face.
My head’s still heavy, my mouth dry—but at least the bruises have eased.
I look down at my stomach, but they’re just as dark as they were last night.
That’s when I pause—I don’t even remember taking my undershirt off.
I glance around the room and spot it crumpled on the floor.
Then I drag myself to my feet and head for the door.
The second I step into the hallway, voices drift from farther down. I freeze, one hand still on the doorknob, breath caught in my throat.
“…disappointed when you tell Newton.”
“This is none of your business, so please stop it.”
“You’re acting like a child, dear nephew.”
“So be it. I don’t need anyone’s pity, including yours. I’ll manage just fine on my own, thanks.”
Xavier and Ernest. In the kitchen.
I let go of the doorknob and inch forward a step, heart climbing, straining to hear more—but nothing else comes.
Just as I think about retreating, the bedroom door creaks behind me. I flinch, glancing back, but it’s too late. From up ahead, I hear Ernest clear his throat—pointedly.
Well. So much for sneaking away.
I straighten my shoulders, cross the rest of the hallway, and step into the kitchen.
Xavier and Ernest are locked in what looks like a silent staring contest. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
“Morning,” I mumble.
Xavier, unreadable as ever, barely glances my way. Across from him, Ernest—immaculate in a brown three-piece suit—plasters on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Good morning,” he says, drawing out each syllable like it pains him. He squints at me once—then again, slower. His lips curl into a smirk before he turns back to Xavier.
“Something you wanted to tell me?” I ask, cutting through the air between them.
Xavier doesn’t move. “My uncle wants to apologize for the cameras.”
I frown and turn to Ernest.
“Not in the slightest,” he replies smoothly, crossing one leg over the other and flicking imaginary dust from his pants. His smile stays tight.
“Then why are you here, sitting in my kitchen at nine a.m.?” Xavier says, taking a slow sip of coffee. Wrapped in his black robe, he looks completely unbothered.
“Wanted to check in,” Ernest says coolly. “You didn’t respond to my messages yesterday.”
“That was probably on purpose,” Xavier says, irritation creeping into his voice.
I freeze. But Ernest doesn’t even acknowledge it. His gaze shifts back to me—runs over my bare chest, then drifts toward the hallway behind me.
“Don’t hover in the doorway, Newton,” he says, and lets it hang. His narrowed eyes make it clear he’s not thrilled about whatever he thinks happened last night.
The look he gives me makes my skin itch, like I’ve been shoved under a spotlight I didn’t ask for. For a second, I think about going back to my room to throw on a T-shirt—twice in one week is too much to be half-naked in front of Ernest Ormond.
But I shove the thought away, pull out a chair, and sit.
Big mistake.
The second I do, I catch where his eyes go. My chest. The scars. Then the bruises.
His expression shifts—barely—but I catch it. Something like discomfort. Maybe even concern. He looks like he’s about to ask something, but he doesn’t.
I clear my throat and fold my arms over my chest.
Xavier, who had been sipping his coffee like this was all a minor inconvenience, suddenly picks up on the shift. His posture stiffens. He narrows his eyes at his uncle.
“Is there something else you wanted?”
“Yes,” Ernest says, finally pulling his gaze off me.
“Say it.”
Then, as if continuing a conversation he’d already started in his head, Ernest says, “She asked about you. Wanted to know when you’d stop by.”
Xavier’s mouth twists, unimpressed. “You were never good at lying.”
“I’m not,” Ernest says, shaking his head. “She wants to see you.”
Xavier squints at him. “Why? She never gave a damn before. Why now?”
“She’s your mother.”
“That never mattered to her before either.”
“It matters now. Do your duty as a son, just this once.”
“No, thanks,” Xavier says flatly, irritation bleeding into his voice. “I’ve got more important things to do.”
“Like what?” Ernest asks, voice thick with sarcasm.
“My work,” Xavier snaps, not missing a beat.
Ernest rolls his eyes. “Take a day off. Come to Aldrich. Bring Newton along, if you must. I’m sure your mother would love to meet the man you spend so much time with. You wouldn’t mind meeting Xavier’s mother—my dear sister Helena—would you, Newton?”
I blink, caught off guard. Before I can even think of what to say, Xavier’s eyes flash.
He stands abruptly, voice low. “Leave Newt out of this.”
Ernest just smirks, head tilting. “Why? Isn’t that what you want?”
“Shut up.”
“Fine, have it your way,” Ernest sighs, rising to his feet. “Guess I’ll head out.”
“Already?” I ask, surprised. “This is the third time you’ve dropped by in two days, and every time, you leave after ten minutes.”
“Well, my dear nephew’s not exactly rolling out the welcome mat,” Ernest says with a cool smile. “And here I thought I’d at least get offered a cup of tea…”
“Goodbye,” Xavier says flatly.
Ernest throws him a reproachful look. “Think about what I said.” Then, with a nod in my direction, he turns and walks out.
A moment later, the front door clicks shut. Xavier snorts and downs the rest of his coffee like it’s a shot.
I stand and head for the cabinet, reaching for a clean mug. “So what was that about?” I ask. “He seriously showed up at nine a.m. just to guilt-trip you into visiting your mom?”
“Just an excuse,” Xavier mutters, shaking his head. “He’s still pissed about the cameras.”
I pause, mug in hand. “I caught some of what you guys were saying,” I say carefully. “Sounded like he wanted you to tell me something. Wanna fill me in?”
From the corner of my eye, I see him tense. He sinks back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the side of his cup. His eyes flick to mine—blank, then quickly away.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
“What happened?” I frown, watching him.
Xavier meets my gaze.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Xavier,” I say quietly. “Tell me what’s going on.”
There’s a pause. Then a sharp exhale, like he already regrets bringing it up.
“My father died.”
“What?” I blink. “When?”
“A while ago. Didn’t see the point in mentioning it.”
“Xavier…” I pull out a chair and sit beside him. “I’m so sorry.”
A pit settles in my stomach. I want to say something else—something that might actually help—but nothing comes.
“Thanks,” he says flatly.
“I…I didn’t even know your father was still in the picture,” I admit. “You never talked about him. Were you guys close?”
Xavier shakes his head. “We weren’t. I carry my mother’s last name for a reason.”
I nod. But before I can stop myself, I say, “I really am sorry, Xavier. I get that you don’t want to talk about it, but if you need anything—”
“It’s fine, Newt,” he cuts in, a little softer now. “Let’s just drop it.”