CHAPTER 12. OXYGEN #2
“Xavier.” I perch on the edge of the tub, brushing my fingers across his forehead. He’s not burning up the way he was—the water must’ve cooled him down a little.
His eyes flutter open, drowsy, unfocused, drained.
“Time for bed. Let’s get you out.”
I grab a towel from the hook, unfolding it as I wait for him to stand. He pushes himself up but immediately sways, knees giving out. I catch him under the arms before he can fall.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, wrapping the towel around him and steadying him as he steps onto the bath mat.
“Sorry. My body’s not…listening,” he mumbles.
“It’s okay. You need to sleep. And eat. Unless you’re aiming for a hospital stay,” I say, tightening the towel around him.
Xavier mutters something that barely sounds like words. I guide him to the bedroom and help him down onto the bed. Dropping the clean clothes in his lap, I step back.
“Can you get dressed?”
He doesn’t answer. His cheeks are flushed, lips dry and pale.
I hesitate for a moment, then sigh and step in.
I pull the towel away, trying not to notice the way his skin is still damp and overheated, then lift the T-shirt over his head, guiding his arms through as gently as I can.
He sways, and I steady him, my hands firm on his sides.
Then I help him into the pajama pants, my throat tightening at the sheer vulnerability of it—him letting me do this without protest, too weak to argue.
Once he’s dressed, I lay him back against the pillows and pull the comforter over him.
“I’ll grab some meds,” I say, though he doesn’t respond, just lies there with his eyes shut.
When I return with the first aid kit and a glass of water, he hasn’t moved. I lean in, press my lips to his forehead, and feel the heat still clinging to his skin. “How’re you feeling?”
His eyes flutter open, barely focused. “The room’s spinning…”
“It’ll pass,” I murmur, sitting down beside him. “Just sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”
Xavier doesn’t reply, his eyes drifting shut. His breathing slows, evens out.
I yawn, watching his still silhouette in the dim light. He doesn’t move, and after a while, sleep tugs at me again—heavier this time. With a moment’s hesitation, I lie down beside him, on top of the comforter, and close my eyes.
***
I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, a sharp knock jolts me upright. My sleep-muddled thoughts—Rishetor’s labs, gasoline, Xavier—scatter as the door creaks open.
Mrs. Waverly pokes her head in.
I squint at her through half-lidded eyes, still too heavy with sleep to react when she chirps, “Morning, Xavi—”
She cuts herself off.
Oh God.
Being friendly with your neighbors has its perks, but sometimes—even with someone as sweet as Mrs. Waverly—it’s more trouble than it’s worth.
Like now.
The Waverlys drop by unannounced all the time. Usually it’s sweet. Occasionally, a little awkward. But this? This is a disaster.
Her gaze lands on me, half-buried under the covers beside Xavier.
“Oh,” she says, a little flustered. “Newt. You’re here too. Good morning!” A beat. “Boys, I didn’t mean to intrude…”
“Ugh.” A low groan rises from the comforter beside me. That’s when I realize the warm weight pressed against me is Xavier—his arm slung across my waist, his head tucked into the crook of my shoulder, most of his body draped over mine.
I rub my face, trying to shake off the sleep. “What time is it?”
“Eleven,” she says, still lingering in the doorway.
Eleven. I wince. I slept straight through my alarm. The curtains are still drawn, the room cloaked in grayish dimness, barely brighter than early morning.
“Chief Willand called,” Mrs. Waverly adds, her voice a little gentler now. “Said it was urgent. He couldn’t reach you.”
Xavier shifts but doesn’t lift his head. His voice is muffled, rough with sleep. “Tell him to leave us alone.”
There’s a pause before Mrs. Waverly says gently, “I would, dear, but I’m afraid he’ll just barge in here like he did the other day.”
I try to sit up, but Xavier’s weight keeps me pinned, so I end up half-upright, awkwardly propped against the headboard.
He grumbles in protest, sliding off my chest. There’s a dull throb at the back of my head—I feel underslept and slightly hungover, even though I didn’t drink that much last night.
“What did he want?” I ask, blinking through the fog.
Trying to hold eye contact with Mrs. Waverly while Xavier’s practically wrapped around me is painfully awkward.
My face burns. Especially since I’m doing my best not to think about the fact that we’re tangled up under the covers.
I don’t know what Mrs. Waverly and her husband believe about me and Xavier—not with everything that’s been in the papers—but I’m pretty sure after this, she’ll have made up her mind.
“I don’t know, really,” Mrs. Waverly says with a shrug. “You’d better call him back.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, keeping it brief, hoping she’ll take the hint.
But she lingers in the doorway a moment longer, then adds with a soft, slightly mischievous smile, “I’m glad you two made up.” She winks. “It’s awful seeing you quarrel…”
My face goes hot, but luckily, that’s when she finally leaves—humming something cheerful to herself.
I drop back onto the pillow, flustered and exhausted, and the moment I do, Xavier’s head emerges from under the comforter. He looks better—still flushed, but not alarmingly so, eyes clear and bright, his dark curls scattered messily across the pillow.
Suddenly, the space between our faces is too small. And for a second, the whole thing feels…domestic. Like we just had sex and are now lying here in the hazy aftermath.
“Hi,” I say, looking at him, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“Hi,” Xavier murmurs, eyes on mine, searching—like he’s trying to read something in my face.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, reaching up to touch his forehead. He doesn’t flinch exactly, but I feel him tense beneath my fingers before he tries to play it off.
“Better,” he says softly.
“You’re still warm,” I say, sliding my hand to the side of his neck. “What would you like for breakfast?”
He swallows, eyes still on mine. “Not sure I trust my stomach with food just yet.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So what can I do to convince you to go to the doctor?”
“Nothing,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t even try.”
“How about one wish,” I offer, smiling.
“One wish?” he echoes, voice still hoarse. “What am I, five?”
I shrug. “You could ask for literally anything. I’d do it.”
Xavier actually pauses at that. Then his eyes crinkle. “You can’t say literally anything.”
I snort, my stomach doing a somersault under the weight of his gaze. “Alright, nothing seriously illegal. But other than that.”
“You still can’t say that,” he mutters.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
Xavier just looks at me—wide-eyed, incredulous—like his brain is catching up, like he’s trying to telepathically say something without actually saying it.
“You’re blushing,” I lie, just to mess with him.
And oh god—it works. He actually blushes.
He turns away fast, red blotches rising on his neck and cheeks as he mutters, “I’m not,” so flustered my heart throws a rave.
Wait. What was he thinking?
But I don’t get a chance to look at Xavier—he’s already rolled away, buried under the comforter, the warmth of his legs no longer tangled with mine.
“Are you okay?” I ask with a chuckle, but all I get is a noncommittal grunt from under the covers.
“I’ll go make coffee,” I say, starting to push myself up. But before I can move, a fever-warm arm wraps around my waist, holding me there.
I freeze. My brain short-circuits. My body, of course, picks this moment to betray me—skin buzzing, cock twitching like I’m some horny idiot in a teenage romcom.
“Xavier,” I breathe, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “I’ll go make coffee, okay?”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I instantly hate myself for it. I don’t even know what I’m asking anymore—permission? Forgiveness? A little mercy?
“Don’t move,” Xavier mutters from under the comforter.
And that’s it. I go completely fucking pliant.
Because of course—this is my life now: being spooned by my feverish, emotionally unavailable work partner I’m stupidly in love with, while trying not to pop a boner. Totally normal.
Luckily, that’s when the bed buzzes between us. One of our phones. I reach under the covers, groping around blindly, until I realize—it’s under Xavier.
There’s a brief, deeply awkward moment where I accidentally graze his thigh before yanking the phone free.
Willand. I press accept.
“Yes?” I mutter.
“Hi?” Willand’s voice comes through.
“Sam? Hi.”
“Newt? Is that you?” he asks, sounding a little surprised.
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry I missed your calls.”
There’s a pause. Then: “I was actually trying to reach Xavier. Is he there?”
I freeze. Slowly, I pull the phone away from my ear—and yeah. Of course. I grabbed his phone.
Shit.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, glancing at the lump under the covers. “He’s just not feeling great.”
“Tell him I need him at the station. ASAP. No excuses.”
“Did something happen?” I ask, frowning—though I already have a pretty good idea. A cold weight settles in my stomach.
Willand pauses. Then he says, “He’s in trouble, Newt. Real trouble. And I don’t think he’s getting out of it this time. If he doesn’t show up himself, I’ll have to send officers.”
“Send officers? What the hell is going on?”
“Rishetor called,” Willand says. “Xavier broke into their labs last night. Illegally. They’re pressing charges.”
I freeze, my insides turning to ice.
“Did you know about this?” Willand asks. “About the break-in.”
“Not till earlier today,” I say, because technically, that’s true. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty damn bad,” Willand says, though his voice softens a little. “Mr. Rishetor is back from his vacation and he’s pissed. So please let Xavier know, will you? He has some explaining to do.”