Chapter 7
Clare
“Before we risk your stubborn ass on the streets, you need a bath.”
Xavier’s expression went flat. Suspicious.
“I’m serious. You smell like the bottom of a river had a fight with a dumpster fire.
And lost.” I grabbed the basin from under the sink, ran hot water until steam rose.
“Police are looking for someone matching your general description. But they’re not looking for someone clean. We change what we can change.”
“You need cleaning.” Set the basin on the floor, twisted the rag until water stopped dripping. “Actual cleaning, not spot treatment. Infection doesn’t care how awkward this is.”
He glanced at the basin. Then at my face. Wary but not refusing.
Progress. Sort of.
Also gave me something to do besides think about walking him into the clinic. About X-rays that might show skull fractures. About what happened if they did. Or if they didn’t.
“This stays professional. You’re a patient. I’m a nurse. I’ve seen everything. This means nothing. I’m going to start with your upper body. Shoulder, chest, arms. Then we’ll work down.” Kept my tone matter-of-fact. Clinical. “If anything hurts, let me know. Got it?”
Slight nod.
Gathered supplies: soft rag, soap that didn’t smell like antiseptic, clean towels. Had already cranked up the heater. My fingers trembled slightly. Exhaustion. Not nerves about touching him more than medically necessary.
Not awareness that this was going to be intimate in ways checking injuries wasn’t.
“Lie down.”
He didn’t move. Studied me with that unnerving focus.
“I can’t clean you if you’re sitting up. The physics don’t work. Lie. Down.”
Finally shifted. Slow. Careful. Like he expected a trap.
Once flat, he tracked my every movement. Predator awareness that prickled along my spine. Made me hyperaware of how close I was standing, how vulnerable he was in this position, how easily things could go wrong.
How easily I could cross lines I shouldn’t.
Dipped the rag in hot water. Squeezed it out. The warmth felt good on my cramped knuckles.
“Starting with your shoulder. Don’t tense up.”
First contact: warm cotton to bare skin, heat spreading under my palm. Solid muscle shifting beneath the fabric. His fever radiating through the layers.
My movements slowed. For a second. Long enough to notice.
Warmth crept up my neck.
Forced myself forward, dragging the dampened cotton across his collarbone, down the curve of his shoulder. Careful around the binding. Careful around everything.
Started talking to cover the awareness. Filled the silence before it could settle into something dangerous.
“So.” Slid the rag to his collarbone, working carefully around the IV line. “You strike me as the strong, silent type. Which works out great since you literally can’t talk. Lucky for you, I talk enough for both of us.”
His mouth almost curved. Almost.
“Fun fact. In the ER, we had a guy come in with a fishing lure embedded in his scalp.”
Xavier’s attention flicked to mine. Questioning.
“Said he’d been casting, and the wind caught it wrong. Buried a triple hook right above his ear.” Started on his other shoulder, working methodically. “Except the entry angle was all wrong for casting. And his buddy kept laughing.”
Almost-smile there. Corner of his mouth threatened to lift.
“Turns out the buddy had thrown it at him. On purpose. During an argument about whose turn it was to buy beer.” Rinsed the fabric, applied more soap. “They were in their sixties. Grown men fighting about beer money with fishing tackle as weapons.”
The almost-smile grew. Not quite reaching his features but warming the air between us.
“The best part? The buddy came to visit while we were extracting the hooks. Brought him a six-pack as an apology.” Started on his chest, careful around bandages. “Security had to escort him out because he tried to crack one open in the ER. Said if his friend couldn’t drink it, he would.”
Xavier’s chest moved. Silent laugh, maybe. Hard to tell without sound. But tension eased by degrees.
My touch gentled too. Following the lines of muscle, learning the map of old scars. Fingers moving without conscious thought, tracing damage I wanted to understand.
Caught myself. Pulled into professional efficiency.
“We see everything. Injuries from sex toys, from DIY home repairs gone wrong, from stupid bets. Guy who superglued his hand to his forehead trying to win fifty bucks. Another who got his head stuck in a Halloween decoration. A woman who...”
Stopped mid-sentence. Had traced down his torso while talking. Water catching on defined muscle. Scars layering over scars. The way his body looked under my touch.
Lost my train of thought completely.
“Who what?” The question came in gesture, his hand moving slightly, prompting.
“Right. Woman who tried to pierce her own belly button with a safety pin and nail gun.” Recovered. Sort of. My words came rougher than before. “Don’t ask. I still have nightmares.”
Kept washing. His arms next. Long limbs, fighter’s build. Each stroke mapping him in ways medical assessment never had. Learning textures, temperatures, the small reactions when I found tender spots.
He studied my face the whole time. Intent. Present. Actually listening to my rambling stories like they mattered.
Dangerous warmth bloomed in my ribs.
Kept talking while I worked. Story after story, the absurd parade of human stupidity that filled emergency rooms at three AM.
The guy who’d gotten his head stuck in a railing trying to prove he could fit.
The woman who’d glued fake eyelashes to her eyelids with industrial adhesive.
The teenager who’d tried to pierce his own nipple with a thumbtack and was shocked, shocked, when it got infected.
Xavier studied my face while I talked, engaged in a way that raised goosebumps on my arms. Like he was really listening, really present, not just tolerating my rambling.
Each story earned small reactions. Raised eyebrows. The ghost of a smile. Once, his shoulders shook with silent laughter that made him wince, ribs protesting.
“Don’t rupture anything.” But I was grinning too. Couldn’t help it. “I just glued you together.”
Started lower, cleaning his ribs around the bandages. Traced the ladder of bone beneath muscle, feeling each careful breath, hyperaware of every inch I touched.
My rhythm had settled. The nervousness fading into comfortable motion, the stories flowing easier, his reactions grounding me.
Started to relax. Just slightly. Just enough to let my guard slip.
My grip tightened without meaning to.
“Everyone deserves someone who gives a damn. Who shows up. Who doesn’t leave them bleeding in alleys or ER waiting rooms or...”
Trailing off. Throat thick.
Xavier’s hand covered mine. Gentle pressure. There and then gone, so fast I might have imagined it.
Except I felt it. The warmth. The understanding in that brief contact.
Pressure built behind my eyes.
“Someone has to be there when things go wrong. When people need help. Someone has to...”
Cracked.
Turned away, twisting the rag with too much force. Water splashed into the basin.
“I chose nursing because...” Started. Stopped. Started again. “Because I’ve always been the person who shows up when things are bad. The one who stays. Who doesn’t...”
Couldn’t finish. The words stuck.
Xavier waited. Patient. Not pushing. Just there.
“Lost someone once.” Barely a whisper. “Someone I should have saved. They needed me and I wasn’t there. Thought I had more time. Told them to wait. They couldn’t wait.”
A beloved face flashed in my mind.
Xavier’s hand found mine again. Covered it completely. Warm. Solid. Real.
Vision blurred. Had to look away before something broke.
“So now I don’t make people wait. I show up. Even when it’s stupid. Even when it’s dangerous. Even when harboring fugitives and committing felonies.” Forced brightness into the words. Forced the crack to seal. “Because that’s what we do, right? We save the idiots who can’t save themselves.”
Too much. Said too much. Showed too much.
Cleared my throat, pulled away gently. Rebuilt the walls with sarcasm like armor.
“So yeah. That’s why I’m here giving you a sponge bath instead of, you know, calling the cops like a reasonable person would. Excellent life choices. Gold star decision-making. My guidance counselor would be so proud.”
Xavier’s expression said he saw right through it.
I grabbed the rag, twisted it harder than necessary. “Anyway. Enough trauma dumping. Let’s focus on getting you clean instead of getting feelings all over the place.”
Started on his other arm, needing the distraction, needing to not see sympathy or understanding or whatever made my ribs ache.
But my fingers weren’t quite steady anymore.
And he was still studying me like he could see every crack in the facade.
Kept working. Kept my mouth shut this time. Rinsed in silence, squeezed out excess water, worked methodically across his skin. Trying to rebuild the clinical distance. Trying to shove down whatever had surged up when I’d confessed things I never talked about.
He didn’t stop looking at me. Reading me. Seeing too much.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
He didn’t stop.
“I mean it. I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
His eyebrow lifted. Calling bullshit without saying a word.
“Shut up.”
Almost-smile. Gentle this time. Understanding underneath that made my stomach flip.
I focused on his arm, cleaning wrist to shoulder with more attention than strictly necessary. Needing the task. Needing something to do besides touching his face, smoothing his hair, doing catastrophically stupid things.
The water had gone cold. Needed fresh. Needed to move, to breathe, to put space between us before I did something we’d both regret.
“I’m going to get clean water.” Stood too fast. The room tilted slightly. “For your legs. Since apparently I’m committed to this whole ‘keeping you alive’ thing.”