CHAPTER 12. OXYGEN #3
“Alright,” I say. “We’ll come in later today, okay?”
“I’ll be waiting,” Willand says, then hangs up.
I turn to Xavier. “Did you hear that? Rishetor is pressing charges against you.”
A muffled grunt comes from under the comforter before his face appears. “I don’t care,” he says, his hand still resting around my waist.
I sigh and sit up. “Well, you should—unless you want to get arrested. Willand’s waiting for us at the station.”
Xavier looks up at me, tired and pale, except for the feverish flush on his cheeks. “I’m not feeling well,” he mutters, and this time, I can tell he means it.
I frown. “Tell me what hurts.”
He exhales. “Head. Eyes. Everything, kind of. I’m freezing but sweating, and it feels like the room keeps tilting.”
“Can you sit up?”
He lets go of me, pushes himself onto his elbows, and leans back against the headboard with a wince.
I take his chin and tilt his face up. “Open your mouth.”
He blinks at me, then does it.
“Say ah.”
“Ah.”
“No—say aaah.”
“Aah.”
“Wider. I need to see your throat.”
“Aaah—uck off,” he mutters, mouth still open. Then coughs.
“Throat’s red,” I say, letting go of his chin. I reach for the nightstand, grab the first aid kit, and pull out the black leather case. Unzipping it, I take out the stethoscope. “Lift your shirt.”
Xavier gives me a look. “Why?”
“It’s a stethoscope,” I say. “I need to hear your lungs.”
“I know what it is,” he snaps, yanking his shirt up, clearly annoyed.
As I fit the earpieces in, I catch him staring—not at my face, but my neck. The moment he realizes I’ve noticed, he looks away.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says quickly.
I press the stethoscope to his chest. The cold makes him flinch, muscles tightening under my fingers.
“Breathe in,” I say. “As deep as you can.”
He inhales, but it’s shallow. I wait, listening. “Deeper.”
He tries again, jaw tight. It still comes out uneven.
“Come on, give me a full one,” I say, shifting the stethoscope slightly. “From the bottom.”
There’s a pause before he pulls in another breath—longer this time, but shaky. His throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes flick to mine, then away.
I move the stethoscope lightly against his ribs. “Deeper.”
He exhales through his nose, then mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, looking away. “Are we done?”
“Almost. Lungs are clear. Now let me check your heart.”
He sighs, but he doesn’t argue. I press the stethoscope to his chest, right over his heart. He shifts, uncomfortable, eyes dropping. His heartbeat thuds fast and uneven.
I frown. “Your heart’s racing.”
He doesn’t answer, just sits there tense, like he’s waiting me out.
“Turn around. I need to check from the back.”
He exhales sharply but obeys. I lift his shirt and press the stethoscope between his shoulder blades. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
“Alright,” I say after a moment. “The rhythm’s off, but otherwise it sounds okay.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my heart,” he says, still facing away. His voice is quiet, almost detached, like he’s holding something back.
“You should still get checked out,” I say, “just to be safe after the gasoline exposure.” I pull out the thermometer and fit it into his ear. Xavier gives me the most miserable look but doesn’t argue.
A quick beep. 38.9°C flashes back at me, confirming the fever I already felt.
“Jesus,” I sigh. “You’re burning up.”
I grab a painkiller from the medkit and hand it to him. “Take this.”
Xavier doesn’t ask questions—just swallows it dry.
Then, without a word, he pushes the comforter off and stands, a little unsteady. I tense, ready to step in, but he’s already moving—crossing the room, opening his wardrobe, and pulling out the laptop I noticed in there last night. He carries it back to the bed and sits down on top of the covers.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he flips it open.
Xavier doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is glassy, like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
“Xavier,” I call him.
He blinks out of whatever thought he was lost in and says, “What’s the point of having kids if you’re at work all day?”
I glance at him. “Sorry, what?”
Xavier turns to me, face unreadable. “Cormac Bridge spent all his time at work while his wife raised the kids. So what’s the point? Why have them if you’re never around?”
I pause, a little thrown, then shrug. “No idea. I’ve never wanted kids.”
That makes him frown, like it genuinely surprises him. “Really?”
I nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah. I like drinking my coffee in peace.”
But he just squints at me, like he’s trying to read something between the lines.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I just figured you wanted kids.”
I snort. “Why? I’m not exactly the patient, nurturing type.”
“But you are,” Xavier says, quieter now, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head. “You’re patient. And nurturing.”
I smirk. “With you—maybe. But I’ve always pictured myself working until I’m ninety and traveling the world,” I say, then tack on quickly, “with my partner.”
The second the word leaves my mouth, heat crawls up my neck. Did that sound like I meant him? No…right? Maybe? I feel ridiculous for even wondering.
Xavier holds my gaze, but his face is impossible to read. He stays silent so long it makes me fidget, and before I can stop myself, words spill out.
“Anyway, why do you ask? You want kids or something?”
Great. Perfect. If it didn’t sound weird before, it definitely does now—like I just implied our hypothetical future families are tied together. And judging by the way Xavier blinks, he might be thinking the same thing.
“Not really,” he says at last. “I don’t want them. But I’m…flexible. I mean—” He hesitates, color rising in his cheeks. “I decided I don’t want kids. But if my…partner does, then…I’d be on board with that.”
My heart stumbles at that word—partner.
Sure, I said it first, but I didn’t think Xavier would catch how queer-coded it usually is. He probably knows it means someone you’re with, sure, but the way he paused before saying it—like he picked it on purpose—makes me second-guess. It really sounded like he meant it the same way I did.
Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I’m still half-drunk. But it sure as hell feels like we’re talking about having kids together. Or, rather, not having them. Either way, it’s completely messing with my head.
“That’s…nice of you,” I say, swallowing past the sudden dryness in my throat. Then, because I have to say something—anything—I add, “Are you hungry? I was thinking of making sandwiches.”
Smooth.
Xavier shakes his head. “Thanks. Maybe later.” Then looks right back at the laptop.
I glance at it too—and that’s when it hits me.
“This isn’t your laptop,” I say.
Xavier barely looks up. “Yeah, it’s Bridge’s.”
“Bridge’s?” I blink. “How the hell did you get it?”
“Took it when the wife wasn’t looking,” he mutters, throwing me a quick glance.
I groan. “So you stole it.”
Xavier flashes me an innocent smile. “Well, if we’re being technical…”
I snort. “You do realize the police are already after you, right? If they find out you’re also stealing now, I won’t be able to keep you out of jail.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” he says, patting my knee absently—like I just reminded him to grab his keys.
Heat shoots straight to the spot where he touched me. Great. Amazing. Why am I this pathetic around him?
He enters the password, and I clear my throat. “Where did you get the password?”
“Guessed it,” he says with a shrug. “JAMIECOLIN. His sons’ names.”
I scoot a little closer as he opens Bridge’s email, then clicks over to the calendar and scrolls back to the day he died.
“Here’s his schedule,” Xavier says, eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s not the same as the one in the case file.”
I lean in, scanning the list of appointments—each with a time, a name, a number, and an address.
10:30–11:30, V. Colfridge
13:15–15:15, B. Garfield
17:00–19:00, C. Hill
“It looks the same,” I say, frowning. Then pause. “Wait—no. The last one was someone else. Not C. Hill.”
Xavier nods. “And the time slots are different too.”
“You think that matters?”
Another nod. Then he snaps the laptop shut and sets it on the bedside table. “We should talk to all of them. Just in case.”
“You’re not planning to do that today, are you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“I am,” he says, turning to look at me.
I meet his gaze. “We’re stopping by the station first. And you need to eat something. I’ll make you a sandwich so you don’t pass out in front of a witness. You need the protein—for all those muscles.”
Xavier just blinks at me, frozen. That’s when I notice how close we are—our faces just inches apart.
“I don’t think there’s much protein in sandwiches,” he says, voice low, almost dazed.
“I can make you eggs,” I murmur, barely above a whisper, pulse pounding hard.
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. “I think we can find better sources of protein,” he says—softer now, almost thoughtful. I wait for the smirk, the laugh—something to tell me he’s joking. But it doesn’t come.
Heat crawls up my neck. My throat tightens. “Like what?” It comes out rough, more breath than voice. I can’t move. Can’t think.
He still doesn’t look away.
Then I feel it—his hand on my wrist, thumb brushing over my pulse like he’s reading it. Testing it. My skin sparks under his touch, arousal shooting through me before I can stop it.
“Xavier,” I whisper, needing to know I’m not imagining this. “Like what?”
He leans in, his lips barely hovering over mine.
“Protein powder,” he murmurs.
Then he closes his eyes—and kisses me.
His lips are soft. Warm.
At first, it’s just the press of mouth against mouth, but the rush of it—of him this close—makes me let out a breath, shaky and a little desperate.
Xavier’s eyes open, panic flickering there—like he’s already second-guessing, convinced I didn’t want this. That he messed up. That he should stop.
I don’t let him.