CHAPTER 12. OXYGEN #5
“Willand called again,” Xavier mutters without opening his eyes. “He’s waiting for us.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say firmly, but he shakes his head and looks at me.
“We should go to the police station first. Then the doctor.” The way he says it—flat, resigned—makes my stomach twist.
He looks completely wiped. I reach up, running my fingers through his hair—
And then pause. His hair is damp.
“Xavier, you shouldn’t have—” I stop myself, face heating as it clicks into place.
Right. He washed it. Because of earlier. My cum in his hair.
I clear my throat and shift awkwardly. “Let me dry it before we go.”
He doesn’t answer, just sits there, flushed and still. So I head to the bathroom, grab the hair dryer, and come back.
He hasn’t moved. Still in the same spot at the table, arms curled around his knee like he’s holding himself together. I touch his elbow gently, coaxing him to stand. He lets me guide him without a word, and I lead him back to his room.
He sinks down on the edge of the bed. I plug in the hair dryer, switch it on, and start running my fingers through his curls as the warm air blows.
After a moment, Xavier shifts, resting his cheek against my stomach like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My breath catches. The way he leans into me, completely unguarded, sends a flutter through my chest.
I rest my hand on his back, rubbing slowly over the fabric of his T-shirt before moving on. His hair is soft under my fingers, and when I thread my hands through it, he shivers and lets out a quiet breath.
I comb through his curls gently, taking my time, making sure they’re dry before I let go. Once I’m done, I switch off the dryer and set it on the bedside table.
But before I can step away, Xavier catches my wrist and pulls me back toward him. He looks up at me, his eyes so tired and heavy it makes my chest ache. Then he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in, holding me close.
I settle against him, brushing my fingers along his cheek. His eyes find mine—they’re dark, lingering like he’s trying to memorize my face—and his grip tightens just a little, enough to make my pulse jump.
“You okay?” I ask, smiling as my thumb skims his cheekbone. My heart’s pounding in my throat, the whole thing suddenly unbearably intimate.
“Yeah,” Xavier says. He closes his eyes and rests his cheek against my stomach.
I stay like that longer than I should, caught in it—but the heat in my gut won’t let up. The smell of him, the closeness—it messes with my head, and I know if I don’t move now, my body’s going to catch up.
“I should shower,” I murmur, easing out of his arms.
Xavier doesn’t move at first. Then, after a beat, he lets go.
“I’ll get dressed,” he says.
I nod and walk out of the room.
***
Around twenty minutes later, we finally step outside.
The second the door opens, we’re hit with a wall of blinding flashes and a burst of noise.
Hickory Road is packed—dozens of journalists crammed onto the sidewalk, blocking the path to the street, with a few fans lingering behind them, phones raised.
Microphones and cameras shove toward us from every angle, shutters clicking nonstop.
I flinch against the glare and instinctively step in front of Xavier as we try to push through, but the reporters close in fast, boxing us in.
“Mr. Doherty, can we get a quick comment?”
“Xavier, how are you feeling today?”
“Is it true you’re staying friends?”
“Are you still living here?”
I grit my teeth and raise a hand to block the light. There’s no way around them—we’ll have to go straight through.
“Is it over between you two?”
“Do you regret what happened?”
“Newt, just one question!”
I move quickly down the porch steps, keeping my gaze fixed ahead, making it clear we’re not answering anything.
“Mr. Doherty, please!”
“Anything you want to say to the fans?”
“No, thank you,” I mutter, turning away just as a guy with a ponytail and a massive camera tries to cut me off from the left.
“What’s going on with Miss Fairfax?”
“How long have you been engaged?”
“What does her return say about you and Xavier?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a black cab parked across the street. I don’t hesitate—I head straight for it, pushing through the crowd, tuning everything out.
The cameraman won’t back off, walking sideways to keep us in frame. Beside him, a woman with a press badge fires questions rapid-fire, hoping to trip us up.
“Mr. Doherty, was it ever more than friendship? Did you really love Xavier Ormond? Or was the whole thing just for publicity?”
“Enough,” I mutter. “I’m not saying a word.”
I finally step off the curb and into the street. Xavier’s beside me, silent, his face unreadable. There are dark smudges under his eyes, his shoulders low, like he’s barely holding it together.
We reach the cab and slide into the backseat, slamming the doors shut. Outside, the reporter’s still shouting, her mouth moving as she peers through the tinted glass, but I don’t hear a word of it.
As the car pulls away, the paparazzi drift back to the sidewalk, their disappointment almost palpable.
“You okay?” I ask, turning to Xavier.
He gives a stiff nod, eyes still on the window—but he doesn’t look okay at all. His cheeks are flushed with fever, his eyes rimmed red, lips too pale. He shouldn’t be out like this.
He stays distant, tucked into the far corner of the seat, arms crossed, one leg slung over the other. His gaze doesn’t move, fixed on the passing blur of the city, gray and flickering like an old film reel.
He doesn’t say a word. Neither do I—not at first. The only sounds are the low hum of the engine and the soft murmur of the radio filling the space between us.
“What the hell was that about?” I say finally, breaking the silence.
Xavier glances over, then pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and hands it to me without a word.
I frown, confused—until I see the headline on the screen. My heart skips a beat.
Will Newt Doherty Leave Hickory Road?
I skim the article, pulse thudding in my ears. It’s the usual trash, painting me as some notorious womanizer, now supposedly engaged to Katie Fairfax.
“…Newt Doherty has built a reputation as something of a heartbreaker—rumored to have dated everyone from Hollywood starlets to Russian models.
But despite the headlines, none of these alleged romances ever seemed to stick, perhaps explaining why his cohabitation with Xavier Ormond caused such a stir online.
Now, whispers of a deeper connection between the two—fueled by reports that Ormond may have confessed his feelings—have sent fans into a frenzy. Theories abound, with some speculating that Ormond is in love, while others claim Doherty was just in it for the fun.
But it appears the mystery of Newt Doherty’s love life has finally been solved. According to a source close to the couple, Doherty has proposed to his longtime friend and former classmate, Katie Fairfax—a researcher at the Rishetor Center.
By all accounts, it’s a picture-perfect match: two bright, attractive, and successful individuals finally finding happiness together.
Still, one question lingers: where does that leave Xavier Ormond?”
A laugh bursts out of me, too sudden to hold back. I’m gone, laughing so hard I’m nearly hysterical. Who even writes this crap? I’ve dated maybe five women in the past four years—none of them actresses, none of them Russian models—which makes the whole thing even more absurd.
I mean, sure, it’s all clearly made up, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone close to me—someone who doesn’t know the full picture anymore, like my mom or even Ernest—might read this and think parts of it could be true.
That would normally piss me off. But for some reason, not today.
Maybe because today, I have too many other things on my mind.
I’m still trying to catch my breath when Xavier finally looks up, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his otherwise grim expression.
“What’s so funny?” he mutters, still brooding.
“This,” I say, breathless, handing his phone back. “You do realize I’m not actually engaged to Katie Fairfax, right?”
He nods, but I catch the way his shoulders loosen, just slightly. He shifts a little closer.
“Well, at least they’ve stopped speculating about your sexuality,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “They haven’t stopped,” I snort. “Now I’m a straight whoremonger who suddenly decided to wife up an old crush. Which is even more ridiculous.”
Xavier lets out a quiet, bitter-sounding huff but doesn’t argue. Instead, he turns back to the window.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, but the weight that’s been sitting in my chest all morning feels a little lighter now.
Maybe Xavier isn’t as upset about what happened between us as I thought—maybe it’s just the article that’s thrown him.
The idea steadies me, gives me a flicker of hope.
And even if today was a one-time thing for him (which I really hope it wasn’t), maybe we can at least go back to what we were. Friends.
The thought stings, but I push it down. If it comes down to having Xavier in my life as just a friend or not at all, I’ll take what I can get.
If it were anyone else, I probably would’ve said something by now—tried to figure out where they stand.
Was it heat-of-the-moment, or something they’d been thinking about?
But with Xavier, it’s different. I don’t know how to start that kind of conversation with him.
And the truth is, I’m not sure I want the answer if it’s the one I’m afraid of.
Then another worry creeps in—what if none of it meant anything because he wasn’t fully himself? What if the gasoline vapors are still clouding his head, making him act on impulses that aren’t really his?
A wave of panic tightens in my chest, and I glance at him. He looks exhausted, a little feverish—but not out of it. He knows where he is. Nothing about him seems off.