Chapter 4 #2
It happened twice more over the next hour.
Started to recognize the pattern: he surfaced unpredictably, remained under for random intervals, came back different each time.
Once, he lay completely still with those dark irises open, watching me with calculating precision. No reaction when I checked his injuries. No flinching when I pressed antiseptic to torn skin. Just that flat, assessing stare, cataloguing everything, filing it away.
It made my skin crawl. Made the tremors worse.
“Pick a personality, buddy.” Changing the IV bag. Trying to sound normal. In control. “This Jekyll and Hyde routine is getting old.”
The next time, he pulled away from my touch as though it burned. Defensive curl despite weakness, drawing into itself, breath coming fast and panicked until consciousness flickered out again.
Couldn’t predict it. Couldn’t understand it.
Was it fever? Head injury? Something about those surgical scars and whatever they’d done to him?
What if I was making it worse? What if I was supposed to be doing something, and I didn’t know what?
Each time he surfaced, I talked to him. Steady as I could manage. Calm as I could fake. Filling silence with my voice because I didn’t know what else to do.
“You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. I’m just treating your injuries.”
Each time he went under before I could reach him, before the words could sink past whatever wall separated him from understanding.
“Stay conscious for five damn seconds. That’s all I need. Just five seconds so I know you’re still in there.”
Between his unpredictable surfaces, I worked methodically. Changed the IV bag when it ran low. Monitored the fever that spiked and dropped erratically. Checked his injuries obsessively, looking for fresh bleeding, signs of infection, anything that meant I was losing ground.
Everything that meant I was failing.
His vitals remained all over the place. Heart rate jumping between 110 and 140. Temperature swinging from 102 to 104. Blood pressure barely holding steady.
Kept adjusting the covers. Making sure he remained wrapped. The apartment was too cold. The radiator barely functional. His system too fragile after hypothermia to handle temperature swings.
“Textbook for nothing.” Making notes on the back of a receipt because that was apparently my life now. My handwriting was barely legible, exhaustion making the letters wobble. “Because why would anything about tonight be straightforward.”
The night blurred into routine. Heat compress. Check vitals. Change bandages. Monitor IV. Adjust covers. Wait for him to surface. Hold him down when he thrashed. Talk him through panic he couldn’t understand.
Repeat.
My frame moved automatically. My mind catalogued everything, tried to. But underneath, exhaustion pulled at me with relentless force, threatening to drag me under. My thoughts kept fragmenting. Losing track. Having to start counts over.
What time was it? How long had I been doing this?
Hours blurred together.
Tracked time by IV bag levels, bandage changes, fever cycles.
The radiator cooperated sporadically, clanking, groaning, putting out weak warmth before dying again.
The apartment remained cold. My breath fogged.
Kept piling covers on Xavier, checking his core temperature, terrified the hypothermia would come back.
Between his brief awakenings, muscle memory learned him.
The calluses on his palms told stories I couldn’t read, fighter’s grip, rough and scarred.
Knuckles broken and healed wrong, street fighting damage that spoke of violence older than tonight’s trauma.
The way his breathing hitched slightly when I touched certain areas, like his system remembered pain even when his mind was gone.
The steady thrum of pulse under my fingers became a rhythm I knew by heart.
Caught myself lingering. My thumb tracing a scar across his ribs, following the line of old damage. Wondering who’d put it there. Wondering how he’d survived it.
Realized I’d been touching him longer than necessary.
Pulled back. Focused on work.
“Clinical. Stay clinical. He’s a patient.”
A patient I was completely unqualified to treat. A patient who needed a hospital, a surgical team, someone who actually knew what the hell they were doing.
Did it again five minutes later. Fingertips gentle on his throat, checking pulse when I could have just counted the IV drip rate.
“So much for clinical. Outstanding professional boundaries, Clare.”
But I couldn’t stop. This wasn’t just medical care anymore. Hadn’t been since I dragged him inside. Maybe hadn’t been since I first saw him in that alley, bleeding out in the snow, and chose to stay instead of run.
The admission settled like a weight.
This was dangerous. Knew it was dangerous. Knew every touch blurred lines I shouldn’t cross, knew every moment spent keeping him alive tied me deeper to whatever hell he’d crawled out of.
Knew I was probably going to get him killed because I didn’t know what I was doing.
Didn’t stop the gentleness.
My shoulders screamed. Back ached. Palms cramping from hours of constant work. When had I last eaten? Slept? Sat down for more than thirty seconds?
My vision swam. Blinked hard, trying to clear it.
Fever spiked again. Applied cool compresses, changed bandages when they soaked through. The routine becoming automatic, muscle memory taking over when my brain felt sluggish. When my thoughts kept stuttering, losing their place.
Pulled the chair to his bedside.
Just for a moment. Just to rest.
My legs were shaking. Actually shaking. Collapsed into the chair more than sat.
Still monitoring, the rise and fall of his chest, the IV drip steady in the background.
“Five minutes. That’s all. Five minutes and then back to work. Before he dies. Or the police show up. Or both.”
Before I collapsed completely. Before I couldn’t get back up.
Questions flooded in with exhaustion.
What the hell was I doing? Harboring a fugitive. Probably a killer. Definitely bleeding all over my sheets. Multiple felonies. The kind with actual prison time.
Mom’s book club would lose their shit. Actually, screw the book club. Going to lose my license. Or my life. Maybe both. Probably both.
But even thinking it, even knowing it, I knew I’d make the same choice. Would drag him inside again. Would steal medical supplies again. Would hide him from police again.
Would probably get us both killed, but I’d do it anyway because something in me couldn’t walk away.
She would have approved. She always thought I played it too safe.
“Well...” Whispered to the empty room. Voice cracking. “Not playing it safe anymore. Hope you’re happy wherever you are.”
Pressed the heels of my palms to my eyelids. Hard. Trying to stop the burn there.
“I’m about to join you if this goes sideways. And it’s definitely going sideways.”
Found his wrist, checking pulse. Fingers wrapped around it, thumb on the point. Steady. Strong. Fighter’s pulse.
Didn’t let go.
Something in my chest settled having that contact. Proof of life. Proof I hadn’t lost yet. Proof I hadn’t killed him yet.
My head dropped to the mattress edge, grip still holding his wrist. Half-asleep, half-aware, caught in that twilight state where everything felt distant. Where the fear couldn’t quite reach me.
Still tracking his breathing in the quiet. The rhythm of it steady as a metronome. Snow tapping on windows. Wind howling through gaps in the building. Everything settling into temporary peace.
First time since finding him I felt something like calm. The storm’s eye, a brief respite before chaos returned.
Safe in this moment.
“This won’t last.” Murmured into half-sleep. “Never does.”
Even half-unconscious, awareness remained on him. His wrist in mine. His heartbeat. His presence filling my small apartment.
Not alone.
Hadn’t felt not-alone in a long time.
Then... fingers tightened around mine.
Not unconscious fumbling. Deliberate. Intentional.
Thumb brushed across my knuckles, questioning, testing, a conscious touch that made my pulse skip.
Jerked awake, disoriented, heart pounding.
Took a second to place where I was. Then I saw them.
Open. Watching me. Clearer than before despite lingering fever.
We stared at each other. Him taking in everything, my face, our joined grip, the apartment, the IV, cataloguing details with that predator’s precision. Wary. Calculating. Fully present this time.
Dangerous even flat on his back. Felt it in the way he assessed me, like he was determining exactly how to kill me if necessary.
My breath caught. Fear spiked cold through exhaustion.
Froze mid-breath, caught holding him like I had any right to that intimacy.
Expected him to pull away violently. He did.
Yanked back, gaze going sharp with suspicion. That defensive wariness flooding in despite weakness, despite everything I’d done to keep him alive.
The warmth of his skin gone from mine.
Sat back, kept my palms visible. Non-threatening posture. Heart hammering. But ready to move if he tried to get up again.
Ready to try. Not sure I had the strength left to hold him down if he really fought.
“Hi.” Carefully. My voice came out rougher than I wanted, exhaustion making it crack. “You’re awake. That’s good.”
Tracked my every tiny movement. Not trusting. Not relaxed. Pure threat assessment, predator watching prey.
Felt it in my bones. Felt how easily he could hurt me if he wanted to. If he decided I was the enemy.
“I’m Clare. I found you in the alley. You were dying.”
Nothing. No recognition. No response. Just that flat, assessing stare like he was calculating exactly how much force it would take to break my neck despite the damage.
Probably not much. Running on fumes and desperation.
“Great bedside manner, Clare.” Trying for normal. For sarcastic. It came out shaky. “Very comforting. ‘Hi, you were dying.’ That’ll put him at ease.”
Tried again. “You told me your name was Xavier. Do you remember?”