CHAPTER 13. LINES
“Xavier!”
I’m across the room in a blink, dropping to the floor beside him, panic crashing over me.
He doesn’t respond. I check his breathing—and let out a shaky breath when I feel it, warm against my hand.
I pat his cheeks. No reaction.
I jump to my feet, pull a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and soak it in cold water. Back on my knees, I press it to his face, wiping away the sweat.
“Xavier,” I say again, tapping his cheek with one hand while the other fumbles for my phone.
As soon as I dial, there’s a click, and a woman’s voice: “911, what’s your emergency?”
I explain what happened as calmly as I can while slipping an arm behind his back to keep him from slumping sideways. Then I unbutton the top of his shirt, trying to cool him down.
When the operator says the ambulance is on its way, I hang up and tuck the phone back into my pocket. Xavier’s still out cold. I shift, adjusting my grip to cradle him better, keeping him upright against me.
“Xavier,” I say again, giving him a gentle shake.
That’s when his eyes finally flutter open.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, trying not to let the relief—still sharp with panic—bleed into my voice.
“What happened?” he murmurs, looking up at me. His gaze is cloudy, unfocused.
“You fainted,” I say softly. “Don’t move—I called an ambulance. They’re on their way.”
He doesn’t even argue. Just rests his cheek against my shoulder, breathing shallowly, watching me through slow blinks. His lips are pale and dry.
“Do you want water?” I ask, shifting to get up—but his hand finds mine, stopping me.
“I’m sorry, Newt,” he says, hoarse and barely audible. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say, giving him a small smile. “You’re going to be okay.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
I snort, trying to keep the cold fear in my chest from spilling over.
“Don’t be dramatic,” I say. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”
I say it like I mean it—because I do. I have to. I can’t let the panic win, not when he’s already this worn down.
He nods. But then his eyes well up. He tries to blink it back, but the tears fall anyway.
“Hey,” I murmur, brushing them away with my hand. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be alright.”
I lean in to kiss the top of his head, but he catches my chin mid-way, holding my gaze. Then he closes his eyes and leans forward, pressing his lips to mine.
My chest tightens, heartbeat thudding loud in my ears.
The kiss isn’t anything like the ones we shared this morning—it’s desperate, clinging, the kind that tastes like goodbye.
And when I open my eyes, I know that’s exactly what it is. He thinks he’s saying goodbye.
I pull back, frowning at him. “You’re not going to die, you idiot.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his hand on my face, thumb tracing along my jaw, eyes locked on my mouth like nothing else exists. They’re glassy, wet. My chest twists at the sight.
“Come here,” I say, straightening my legs to make space. “Just lie down for a bit.”
He does. A moment later, he’s curled against me, resting his head in my lap, my fingers sliding through his hair, the other hand rubbing his shoulder.
“They’ll probably take you to the hospital, run a few quick tests,” I murmur. “But don’t worry—I’ll be with you the whole time. Then we’ll go home.”
Xavier just nods, eyes closed. So we sit like that, waiting. And the whole time, I’m hoping Rishetor doesn’t walk in and see us like this—not because I care what he thinks of me, but because I don’t want him seeing Xavier like this. Weak. Even if it’s just the poisoning.
When the bathroom door finally opens and two paramedics step in—a man and a woman—I feel a rush of relief, laced with fresh anxiety.
“The paramedics are here,” I say, tapping Xavier’s shoulder.
He opens his eyes and slowly sits up, but I can see the tension in his body. He really does hate doctors—that much is obvious.
I give them the short version—gasoline vapors, the cold lab, everything. They exchange a quick, surprised look but don’t comment, just nod as they listen.
Then they ask for Xavier’s full name, and the male paramedic jots it down in a notepad along with our home address.
“How are you feeling, sir?” the female paramedic asks, crouching beside him.
“I’m still alive, I think,” he says weakly. And judging by the stoic set of his face, I realize just how scared he actually is. He doesn’t show it, not really—but I’ve never seen him this rattled. Not even at gunpoint.
The paramedic lets out a soft snort.
“Let me check your blood pressure, sir,” she says, pulling a monitor from her bag. “Can you roll up your sleeve, please?”
Xavier nods and, with some effort, unbuttons his cuff and pushes the sleeve up.
She straps the cuff around his arm and presses the button. The machine beeps and starts to inflate, tightening around his bicep. Xavier blinks, his face tensing even more.
I keep my hand on his shoulder, steadying him. He draws in a shaky breath and looks up at me—like he’s half expecting the monitor to confirm he’s already dead.
Half a minute later, the machine beeps again.
“Pressure’s low,” the paramedic says. “When was the last time you ate, sir?”
“I don’t know,” Xavier says with a shrug, a flicker of relief in his voice. I feel it too—if she’s asking about food, it probably means it’s not that bad. Right?
The male paramedic hands Xavier his pad and a pen. “Sign at the bottom to confirm you consent to the exam.”
I half expect Xavier to put up a fight, but he just signs and hands it back without a word.
“Now please take off your shirt,” the female paramedic says. “And lie down.”
Xavier unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off without even glancing at her. Then he lies onto his coat, and she begins pressing gently around his stomach. He stays perfectly still, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere off to the side, but his body stays tense—coiled under her hands.
“Does it hurt here?” she asks, pressing just above his navel.
“No,” Xavier says flatly.
“And now?” She presses lower.
“No.”
“Then why did you flinch?”
Xavier looks at her evenly. “I don’t like being touched.”
She quirks an eyebrow, flicks a quick glance my way, but doesn’t comment.
Next, they pull out a portable ECG machine and begin attaching electrodes to his chest, abdomen, wrists, and ankles.
The machine hums softly for a minute before spitting out a strip of pink paper with his cardiogram.
The woman reads it while her partner peels the electrodes off Xavier.
“Your heart looks good,” she says, looping her stethoscope from around her neck. “Now sit up—I need to listen to your lungs.”
Xavier sits up stiffly while she listens, then she nods and reaches for a glucometer. She takes his hand, pricks his ring finger, and checks the reading, flashing it to her partner, who jots it down.
“Nothing to worry about,” she says, turning back to Xavier.
“We’re going to give you a shot of glucagon for the hypoglycemia, and a bit of diazepam to help calm the nervous system—looks like you’ve had a rough crash from chemical exposure.
Make sure you eat something solid as soon as you’re home, drink some water, and stay in bed the rest of the day. ”
“Alright,” Xavier says, eyes narrowed—like he doesn’t quite buy that he got off this easy.
She snaps on a pair of fresh gloves while her partner fills the syringes, then passes them to her.
“Both go intramuscular,” she says. “Turn a bit to the side for me and pull your pants down.”
Xavier stiffens. His eyes flick to me, and I get it instantly.
“Uh—sorry,” I mumble, turning my head away as heat creeps up my neck. God, why am I blushing? I’m not in high school. It’s just his ass.
He shifts, rolling onto his side, unbuttons and unzips his pants, then tugs the waistband down.
“Relax,” the paramedic says gently. I hear the crinkle of a disinfectant wipe wrapper, then a quiet pause.
A few seconds later: “Done,” she says, rising from the floor. “If you don’t feel better in the next couple of days, get a full checkup at the hospital. But you should be alright. You can get up now, but take it slow. The shots are going to kick in soon.”
As I help Xavier to his feet, the paramedics start packing up.
“You’re going to feel a little high once the diazepam hits, so don’t be alarmed,” the woman adds, then looks at me. “Can you make sure he gets home?”
“Sure,” I say, leaving out the part where we live together. “Will do.”
Once the door clicks shut behind them, I help Xavier dress. He doesn’t protest or try to do it himself—just watches me with a strange expression.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask, glancing up at him.
Xavier nods, then clears his throat. “Sorry for, erm, making a scene. I actually thought I was going to die for a second there.”
I smile, my heart skipping at the fact that kissing me made the cut on his hypothetical bucket list. I know it doesn’t mean anything—not really—but I let myself feel it anyway.
I reach up and brush his hair off his forehead.
Xavier’s gaze drops, and he exhales—quiet, almost soundless—like he wants to say something but doesn’t.
Thankfully, we hardly pass anyone on our way downstairs. Xavier’s already looking better—color coming back into his cheeks—and the relief that floods me is almost dizzying.
Once we’re in the backseat of the cab and pulling away from the station, I feel his eyes on me. When I turn, he’s staring, gaze locked on mine.
“Hey,” I say, remembering the conversation we never finished outside Willand’s office. “You said Mrs. Bridge told you she found something on her husband’s laptop. But you have his laptop. So you lied to Willand.”
Xavier doesn’t say a word. Just keeps looking at me—face unreadable, carved from stone.
“You lied on purpose,” I say, studying him. “Are you testing some theory? Or just trying to throw Willand off?”