CHAPTER 18. HOME #3
He shifts behind me, his arms tightening around my waist. “Did you mean it?”
A surprised snort slips out. “Of course I meant it.” I glance back at him. “That wasn’t even the first time I said it, by the way.”
Xavier presses a kiss into my hair. “This was different. Last night, you said it on your own—without me saying it first.”
I huff a laugh. “I knew you didn’t believe me the first time.”
Xavier hums something noncommittal.
“And by the way,” I continue, “if I remember correctly, last night when I said it, you told me to shut up.”
He chuckles—soft, a little shaky—and pulls me closer. “I thought you were dying,” he murmurs. “It was the worst possible moment to say it.”
I grin, feigning offense. “Well, look who’s talking.” Then I roll onto my back and kiss him. His lips are warm, his breath catching when I pull back just enough to whisper, “I love you, Xavier.”
He freezes. His eyes widen—dark and startled. He just stares at me, like I’m something impossible, like he’s afraid to blink in case I disappear.
I kiss him again, my pulse racing, exhilaration rising in my chest.
And then he says it—quiet, like the words are both heavy and freeing, like they cost him something but give him everything at once:
“I love you, Newt.”
The sound of it steals my breath. My chest tightens. He kisses me—desperate, almost disbelieving—before pulling me into his arms. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, his heartbeat thudding against me. Within minutes, I’m asleep—hurting, exhausted, but so incredibly happy.
***
At ten in the morning, I’m discharged from the hospital with a clean bill of health—though the doctor recommends sleep, rest, and avoiding anything that might strain my psyche. That’s literally what he said.
Xavier, who never left my side, visibly brightens after the conversation. By the time we reach the elevator, I can practically feel the warmth radiating off him.
“You’re in a good mood,” I say as we step inside. His hand lingers at the small of my back.
“I am,” he says, pressing the lobby button. The moment the doors slide shut, he slips his arm around my waist. He looks down at me—eyes warm, corners crinkling with a smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Content. Happy.
I lean up and brush a quick kiss over his lips. Xavier blinks, his eyes softening even more. His hand slides behind my head, drawing me back in.
This time, his mouth claims mine—slow and deep, his tongue sliding against my own until my pulse kicks hard and my cock stirs. Not that it takes much these days.
The elevator dings on the first floor, and Xavier finally lets me go, still catching his breath, his eyes still dark with heat. I don’t even glance at my reflection, but I know I must look just as wrecked.
The doors slide open—and right as we step out, I spot Willand and Crowley in the lobby.
“What are they doing here?” I ask, shooting Xavier a look. He doesn’t seem surprised.
“Willand suggested they escort us home,” Xavier says as we head toward them. “I agreed.”
My stomach twists. “Didn’t they catch Nimoy?”
“They did,” Xavier replies. “This isn’t about him. There were too many fans and journalists outside the hospital last night.”
“Oh. Okay.” I pause. “Where’s Nimoy, though? Is he in custody?”
Xavier’s expression shifts—guarded, like he’s weighing whether to say more.
“Probably,” he says at last, but I can tell he’s holding something back. I don’t get the chance to press him though—we’re already within earshot of Willand and Crowley.
“How are you feeling?” Willand asks, standing up.
“I’m good—thanks to you,” I say, shaking his hand and shooting a glance at Xavier. “The vest saved both of us.”
Willand flushes, clearly caught off guard.
“It’s nothing. Just doing my job,” he says—but the quiet pride on his face gives him away.
I smile and shake Crowley’s hand, just as Xavier steps toward Willand.
And to everyone’s surprise, just as Willand reaches out for a handshake, Xavier pulls him into a hug.
“Thank you for saving him,” Xavier says, holding him tight.
“You’re very welcome, Xavier,” Willand stammers, red as a beet as he pats his back.
Warmth rises in my chest. Xavier’s not exactly the hugging type, which makes it all the more telling.
“That’s a first,” Crowley mutters under her breath, just for me. I glance at her, expecting a jab, but she’s actually smiling—crooked, but genuine.
I smile back, both of us a little thrown.
“My car’s out front,” Willand says once Xavier lets him go, still slightly flushed. “There aren’t many people outside yet, but most of them will probably be waiting on Hickory Road.”
Xavier and I nod and fall into step with him as he and Crowley head for the exit.
The moment we step outside, crisp morning air fills my lungs. Snow drifts down again, soft flakes settling on the thick layer already covering the ground. A shiver cuts through me as the cold sneaks under my coat.
Ahead, a cluster of journalists waits behind a police cordon, cameras already flashing. Just beyond them, a flock of teenage girls erupts into squeals the second they spot us.
“Let’s move,” Willand says, pointing to his car.
The journalists shout questions in unison, voices clashing with the sound of shutters and the crunch of snow. Xavier’s hand finds the small of my back, steering me toward the idling car at the curb.
We pile in quickly—Xavier and I taking the back, Willand and Crowley sliding into the front. The seatbelts click into place, and then Willand pulls out onto the road.
“How are you feeling?” Xavier asks quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear over the steady hum of the car.
I glance up—he’s watching me, eyes warm.
“Great,” I say with a smile. Pretty sure that’s the tenth time today I’ve said it. “You?”
“Good.” A faint smile curves his lips. “Kind of hungry.”
“Yeah, me too,” I admit. “My stomach’s been growling for hours. But I’m not really up for cooking. I was thinking more…lying in bed all day.”
“You can rest. I’ll cook,” Xavier says as he leans closer, his hand brushing my thigh, sending a shiver through me.
“Tempting,” I rasp, my throat suddenly dry. “But takeout sounds better. That way you can lie in bed with me.”
His eyes darken, searching mine—until the corner of his mouth quirks, like he knows exactly what I mean.
“Takeout, then,” he says, swallowing as his hand finds mine on the seat between us.
The steady weight of his gaze makes my gut buzz with arousal, my pulse hammering in my chest. I force myself to look out the front window, just to clear my head. The last thing I need is to pitch a tent in the back of a police car—with Willand and Crowley as the audience.
“Xavier, your uncle called today,” Willand says, flicking a glance at us in the rearview mirror.
“What did he want?” Xavier asks, turning toward him—though his fingers are still idly playing with mine.
“He tried to get in touch with you. Said neither of you picked up your phones, so he was worried.”
Xavier snorts. “Just ignore him.”
“Shit,” I mutter, suddenly remembering Ernest called me too. “I forgot to call him back.”
“Don’t you dare,” Xavier says, fixing me with a look that brooks no argument. “If you start replying, he’ll bug you every day—just like he bugs Willand.”
“You know I can’t ignore him,” Willand cuts in, shooting another quick look at us in the mirror.
Xavier exhales, annoyed. “Why the hell not?”
“He’s…persistent,” Willand says, a thread of exasperation in his tone.
“He doesn’t have friends, that’s why,” Xavier mutters. “Please don’t encourage him. I’ll text him later.”
Willand nods. “Alright. I already told him you’re both fine, so I doubt he’ll bother you today.”
Xavier snorts. “Then you don’t know my uncle.”
***
The crowd on Hickory Road is so large that Willand actually considers calling for backup before we even get out of the car. But Xavier and I talk him down. I can’t stomach another fifteen minutes trapped in the back seat, so we decide to push through—like before.
“Mr. Doherty, how are you feeling?”
“Mr. Ormond, how do you feel about Mr. Doherty saving your life?”
“Tell us about the shooter!”
“Mr. Doherty, what about Mr. Ormond’s latest confession?”
The barrage hits the moment we step out. Cameras flash, voices overlap, microphones and recorders thrust in our faces while fans shriek, snapping selfies and begging for autographs. Willand and Crowley flank us, arms out, forcing a path through the chaos.
As we reach the steps to our building, a flash of pink catches my eye. Selena Hast—already smiling at me like we’re old friends.
“Newt, hello,” she chirps, perking up. “How are you feeling? Did you see—I called you! I’d love to set up an exclusive interview with you and Xavier, whenever convenient.”
“No thanks,” I say flatly over Crowley’s shoulder.
“My interview with you aired last night—exclusively on Romford’s website,” she says, beaming. “Haven’t you seen it?”
Aired? I frown, thrown off, but I don’t have time to ask. Xavier suddenly grips my hand and pulls me inside. We slip into the dim first-floor hallway, Willand and Crowley right behind us, the door shutting with a solid twist of the lock.
That’s when the Waverlys’ door opens and Mr. Waverly peeks out.
“They’re here, Muriel!” he calls back inside, and a moment later both Mr. and Mrs. Waverly shuffle out, instantly on us—gasping and fussing—bombarding me with questions. How am I feeling, what did the doctor say, how am I holding up?
By the time they’re done, all six of us are heading upstairs to our apartment.
I don’t have much energy for company, but I still invite the Waverlys—and Willand and Crowley—to come up.
We owe them that much, and it would feel cruel to send them back out while the journalists are still camped outside.