CHAPTER 13. LINES #3
“Right,” I mutter, circling around him. I take a moment to smooth the twisted bedsheets, toss a pillow back into place, then pause to fold down the comforter. I do it slowly, partly to make space, partly because I’m delaying the inevitable moment of turning around again.
When I finally do, Xavier’s standing closer—shirt hanging open, still in his boxer briefs, thankfully.
His eyes are half-lidded, a little unfocused, and even though he’s staring somewhere around my sternum, I can feel his attention locked on me.
His expression is serious now, almost somber, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and I feel that same jolt of arousal I did in the car—just from how close he is.
It rattles me—not because I don’t want him—fuck, I really do—but because I know this isn’t really him. He’s not thinking straight, and I can’t let myself want something he didn’t fully mean to give. Not when he might regret it the second the drugs wear off.
“Alright, time to get some sleep,” I say, looking away.
He stands there a moment, then sighs quietly and climbs into bed. Relief washes over me—because honestly, I don’t have it in me to deal with anything more right now. I should probably make him something to eat. Maybe I can get him to take a few bites before he knocks out completely.
I head quietly toward the door, giving him a moment.
“Newt,” he murmurs.
I turn back and see he’s already under the comforter, pulled up to his chin.
“Yeah?” I say, pausing in the doorway.
He holds my gaze for a second, like he’s about to say something. But then he just shakes his head and closes his eyes. I watch him for a few more seconds before slipping out of the room, leaving the door ajar—just enough to hear him if he calls.
In the kitchen, I pull out a few eggs to boil, drop some bread in the toaster, and set a pot of milk on the stove. It’s not much, but it’s the most protein I can scrape together from our fridge without stepping outside and dealing with those vultures again.
For a long while, I just stand there, lost in thought, watching the pale swirl of milk as it heats.
After yesterday’s chaos, today already feels like too much.
I think about Katie—how she thinks I distracted her on purpose while Xavier snuck into the center.
About Crowley, Rishetor, and the paparazzi outside, who caught me saying some dumb shit on camera that I’ll now have to explain to everyone—from Monica to my mom, and probably Ernest too.
And then, of course, I think of Xavier.
I think about us having sex this morning—wondering if it was just tension breaking loose, a reaction to the poisoning, or something else entirely. I think of him kissing me in the bathroom at the police station, when he thought he was dying.
I try not to think about the things he whispered to me in the car, because I know they weren’t real. Believing them would only set me up for disappointment. So I shove them to the back of my mind. Let them simmer there—still acknowledged, just out of sight.
I take the eggs off the stove, run them under cold water and peel them, then butter the toasts and set everything on a plate.
It’s only when I pull myself out of my thoughts that I realize—I’m still wearing my shoes. And my jacket. I head into the living room, take everything off, and just as I toss my jacket over the back of the chair, my phone buzzes. I pull it out and glance at the screen.
One unread message.
Xavier: No hope for you tucking me in?
A shiver prickles down my skin. I type back:
Me: I thought you were already asleep.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Xavier: Can’t sleep
And then—
Xavier: Without you
But I refuse to let myself think more of it than it is. So I snort under my breath and type:
Me: Can’t wait to show you these texts tomorrow, Xavier. When you’re less drugged.
The next message takes longer to come through. I’m already back in the kitchen by then, cleaning up.
Xavier: I’ve told you worse things when I wasn’t drugged
I roll my eyes.
Me: Worse? Definitely. But this? This is too lovey-dovey for you.
Xavier: I’m always lovey-dovey when it comes to you, Newt
I stare at the screen. My heart’s racing. My throat’s dry.
Then another text comes in:
Xavier: Always have been
I freeze, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. I mean—it sounds like I know what he’s saying. But God, even drugged Xavier would never say something like this to anyone, let alone me.
Can’t say I’ve noticed! I type back, set on shutting this down before it spirals. Because yeah—I’m definitely showing him these texts tomorrow, just to piss him off.
The reply doesn’t come, and I hate to admit it—but there’s a pang of disappointment in my chest. I probably need to distract myself anyway, at least until Xavier’s better. Maybe I can go talk to the witnesses while he’s sleeping.
I take the milk off the stove and pour it into a cup. Then I put it on a tray, along with the plate, and head back to his bedroom.
When I open the door, I move quietly, just in case he’s already dozed off. But Xavier stirs, half-sitting up in the dim light.
“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse—like he didn’t expect me to come back.
“I brought you some food,” I say, stepping closer to the bed. “Eat something before you sleep. Please.”
“I’m still not hungry,” Xavier says, a faint smile tugging at his mouth—something that looks almost out of place on him.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, settling onto the edge of the bed and placing the tray on the comforter.
He shrugs instead of answering, sits in silence for a moment—then says, “A little desperate.”
“Desperate?” I frown.
“Yeah. That’s a new one for me,” he mutters, but doesn’t explain. He picks up an egg from the plate, turning it over in his hands instead of eating it, staring at it like it might have answers he needs. He doesn’t seem as out of it now. Maybe a little slow, but definitely in his right mind.
“I thought I might go talk to the witnesses while you rest,” I say, breaking the silence.
“I want to go with you,” he says immediately.
But I’m already shaking my head. “Not a chance, Xavier.”
Now it’s his turn to frown. Then something shifts in his expression—like he suddenly remembered something. He drops the egg back into the plate, throws the comforter off himself and jumps to his feet on the far side of the bed, sudden energy sparking through him as he rushes to the wardrobe.
“What are you doing?” I ask, startled, rising from the bed.
Xavier doesn’t answer. I watch him shrug off the half-worn shirt and let it fall to the floor. He pulls out a sweater and starts tugging it on.
I let out a frustrated sigh and circle the bed toward him.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say, watching him wrestle with the fabric. He doesn’t answer—just keeps struggling, grunting as his head and one arm get stuck in the sweater, the other nowhere near the second sleeve.
“Xavier.”
He pretends not to hear me and keeps fighting with it, so I step in, putting a hand on his arm. He freezes and finally looks at me.
“What?”
“You’re still poisoned, drugged, and exhausted,” I say, firm. “I’m not letting you out of the apartment.”
He lets out a loud sigh. “I need to go see Mrs. Bridge.”
“Not today,” I say, reaching to pull the sweater off him—but he catches my wrist, and we both go still. Just standing there, looking at each other.
His eyes are dark in the low light, his jaw tight. He looks at me like he’s angry but says nothing—as if he’s trying hard not to snap.
“Stay home, please,” I say, quieter now, reaching up to brush his cheek. “You need rest. You’re not yourself.”
He closes his eyes for a second, leaning into it almost instinctively—but then pulls back, his expression rigid. “Don’t touch me. Please,” he says, and there’s a thread of desperation in his voice.
“Oh. Sorry,” I say quickly, pulling my hand back.
One of them, anyway. The other is still caught in his grip, suspended mid-air between us.
A flush of embarrassment creeps in, catching somewhere in the back of my throat.
Because yeah, I’ve been too liberal with my touches lately. More than I should have been.
I want to say something casual to break the tension, but my tongue feels heavy in my mouth, and my eyes start to sting. Great. Is that my reaction now? I really need to get out of here before I fully humiliate myself in front of Xavier.
So I force a lopsided smile—awkward, clearly fake—and start to pull my hand from his grip.
But he catches it. Sees right through me. His fingers tighten around my wrist, not letting me go.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, a little slurred. “I didn’t mean ever.”
He hesitates, and I look anywhere but at him, because if I meet his eyes right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll cry.
Then he adds, softer this time, “I meant don’t touch me today. I feel like a live wire, and it’s hard to…uh. I think I’ve hit my embarrassment quota for the day.”
That’s when I look at him again, my heart pounding. He meets my eyes for only a second—then suddenly lifts my hand, presses a kiss to it, and brings it to his cheek, closing his eyes as he holds it there, just breathing.
I want to hug him. God, I want to. But after what he just said, I don’t. I stay still, watching him, my pulse loud in my ears.
After a moment, he opens his eyes and lowers my hand, but he doesn’t let go. Just keeps holding it, his fingers brushing over my knuckles.
“Xavier,” I say softly, like a whisper might keep this moment from breaking. “Let me go talk to the witnesses. I can stop by Mrs. Bridge’s too—if you tell me what you want from her. But you stay here. Eat. Sleep.” I pause. “Please. I need you back to normal.”
I want him back—because I need him okay, but also because I need to know what’s real and what’s not. I need to know where we stand now.