Detectives in love, p.37
Detectives in Love, page 37
Xavier nods against my shoulder, but he doesn’t let go. He just sits down on the edge of the bed, still holding me.
“Xavier,” I say, trying to lean back so I can see his face—but he’s holding on so tightly it’s impossible. I try again, gently rubbing his back. “Xavier, look at me.”
He does—loosening his grip just enough so our eyes can meet, our faces inches apart. He’s breathing hard, his expression serious, almost tragic. My heart aches just looking at him.
“Hi,” I say, smiling softly as my hands leave his back and rise to cup his face, brushing my thumbs over his cheekbones. It feels strange, being this openly tactile with him.
“Hi,” Xavier says. His eyes meet mine for only a second—but that’s all it takes to see the pain in them before he drops his gaze, like he’s uncomfortable showing too much.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask gently, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” he says. “I’m not angry.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?” I ask, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
Xavier freezes, then lets out a shaky breath before resting his forehead against mine.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he says, eyes closed, his fingers finding my face, brushing along my cheeks.
“Well, you scared the shit out of me too,” I say with a smirk.
“He put three bullets in you,” Xavier says, his voice catching for just a second. “I thought you were going to die.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, kissing his jaw.
“Promise me you’ll never do something that stupid again,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.
“Like saving your life?” I snort, teasing—but Xavier stays serious.
“Yes,” he says, a trace of frustration in his voice. “Please. Don’t ever do shit like that.”
“I can’t promise that,” I say. “Just like you can’t promise to stop pushing me away.”
“I told you,” Xavier says, his voice bitter, “I’m not… I do that because I can’t stand losing—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “That’s the point.”
He looks at me, his brows furrowed—but I really don’t want to argue right now. So I lean in, my lips hovering just inches from his. My gaze drops to his mouth, and that’s all the cue he needs.
Xavier kisses me.
I can feel the frustration simmering under it all—the anger, the fear. His mouth crashes into mine with a kind of desperation, like he’s trying to prove something—that I’m alive, that he’s here, that this isn’t some dream he hasn’t woken up from.
“Hey,” I whisper against his lips, trying to slow him down—but he doesn’t stop. The kiss deepens, heavy with everything he hasn’t said. Grief. Relief. Maybe even resentment.
I shift closer, sliding my hand beneath his open coat and pressing it to his chest. When my palm settles over his heart, I can feel it racing.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine.
“I thought I lost you,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t,” I say. “I’m right here.”
He swallows, and I watch his throat move, his lips twitch like he doesn’t trust the calm settling over us. Then he kisses me again—slower this time, less frantic.
I shift on the bed, scooting back to make room. Xavier doesn’t say anything, but after a second, he stands, shrugs off his coat, and kicks off his shoes. Then he lies down next to me on his side, careful not to jostle the mattress.
The bed’s too small for both of us—but I don’t care. I just want him close.
“How’d you get in here?” I murmur.
He exhales through his nose. “I know the guard.”
I snort. “Of course you do. Didn’t the nurses see you?”
Xavier doesn’t smile. “They did. But I begged them to let me in.”
I can’t hold back a laugh. “You? Begged?”
Xavier nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He just looks at me—and there’s so much grief in his face it physically hurts to meet his eyes. I start to reach for him again, but he stops me.
“Show me your back,” he says.
I pause.
He doesn’t say anything else, just waits—his gaze dark.
I roll onto my side, and he unties the gown at the back, pulling it open to expose my skin. I hear him draw a sharp breath.
“How do I look?” I ask, glancing back at him.
His jaw is clenched, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely keeping the emotion down.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Xavier doesn’t answer—but I feel his fingers brush against my skin. It hurts the way deep bruises do, but I try not to wince.
Then I feel him shift behind me, and when I move to turn toward him, his hand flies to my arm, holding me still—and a second later, his lips brush against my back.
My breath catches.
He kisses the bruises, one by one, and I feel the heat of his mouth against my skin. My stomach tightens. The moment is so tender, so fragile, I feel a flicker of guilt when my cock twitches from the contact.
“Xavier,” I call again, rolling over to face him. “Come here.”
I pull him into a kiss.
His mouth meets mine, and I kiss him deeper—trying to melt the tension, the guilt, trying to anchor him. He pushes in, his tongue brushing against mine, sparks of arousal shooting through me. His hand cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek.
“I’m fine. I promise,” I whisper against his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
Xavier’s hand drops to my side, drawing me in until our bodies are flush. It trails down my bare back, then lower—his fingers closing around my ass, kneading it. His expression shifts—sadness giving way to heat.
I reach for the front of his pants, finding him hard beneath the fabric. My pulse hammers as he leans in to kiss me again. This time, it’s all tongue and breathless urgency.
“Lock the door,” I whisper into his ear.
Xavier freezes—his gaze dark, his breath uneven. “We should wait for the MRI,” he says. “I don’t think you should be straining.”
I laugh. “Baby, I’m not planning to strain.”
His eyes flash. And when I lean in and whisper, “Please, fuck me, Xavier,” I watch something snap—his expression going feral for a heartbeat before he reins it in, pulling himself back with every shred of self-control.
“Have you ever had penetrative sex with a man before?” he asks, voice hoarse.
I laugh at the wording. “No,” I say. “But I know the gist of it.”
“We should still wait,” Xavier murmurs, almost gently, his hand catching my chin, his thumb brushing along it.
“I don’t want to wait,” I whisper, locking eyes with him, trying to pour every bit of heat I feel into that look.
“Not in the hospital,” Xavier says, his lips curving into a faint smile before brushing against my ear. I shiver as he whispers, “We don’t have lube or condoms. And if I have you the way I want to—we’ll break the bed.”
The implication knocks the air from my lungs. My breath stutters, cheeks burning.
“Alright,” I manage, barely above a whisper.
Xavier pulls back, his expression softening again. I roll onto my side, pressing my back to his chest, my heart still pounding, and he wraps his arms around me, his hands resting lightly over my stomach. I tug the blanket over us, tucking us into a warm cocoon.
Sleep pulls at me fast, and I’m teetering on the edge of dreams when Xavier’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“You told me you love me last night.”
My heart stumbles. I blink back to wakefulness. “Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “I did.”
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.
Xavier doesn’t look thrilled, but he doesn’t argue. When I offer coffee, all four immediately protest that I should be resting. I wave them off—it’s just coffee. That’s when Xavier steps in, insisting he’ll help. We leave the others in the living room and head into the kitchen together.
“Xavier,” I say, trying to lean back so I can see his face—but he’s holding on so tightly it’s impossible. I try again, gently rubbing his back. “Xavier, look at me.”
He does—loosening his grip just enough so our eyes can meet, our faces inches apart. He’s breathing hard, his expression serious, almost tragic. My heart aches just looking at him.
“Hi,” I say, smiling softly as my hands leave his back and rise to cup his face, brushing my thumbs over his cheekbones. It feels strange, being this openly tactile with him.
“Hi,” Xavier says. His eyes meet mine for only a second—but that’s all it takes to see the pain in them before he drops his gaze, like he’s uncomfortable showing too much.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask gently, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” he says. “I’m not angry.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?” I ask, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
Xavier freezes, then lets out a shaky breath before resting his forehead against mine.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he says, eyes closed, his fingers finding my face, brushing along my cheeks.
“Well, you scared the shit out of me too,” I say with a smirk.
“He put three bullets in you,” Xavier says, his voice catching for just a second. “I thought you were going to die.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, kissing his jaw.
“Promise me you’ll never do something that stupid again,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.
“Like saving your life?” I snort, teasing—but Xavier stays serious.
“Yes,” he says, a trace of frustration in his voice. “Please. Don’t ever do shit like that.”
“I can’t promise that,” I say. “Just like you can’t promise to stop pushing me away.”
“I told you,” Xavier says, his voice bitter, “I’m not… I do that because I can’t stand losing—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “That’s the point.”
He looks at me, his brows furrowed—but I really don’t want to argue right now. So I lean in, my lips hovering just inches from his. My gaze drops to his mouth, and that’s all the cue he needs.
Xavier kisses me.
I can feel the frustration simmering under it all—the anger, the fear. His mouth crashes into mine with a kind of desperation, like he’s trying to prove something—that I’m alive, that he’s here, that this isn’t some dream he hasn’t woken up from.
“Hey,” I whisper against his lips, trying to slow him down—but he doesn’t stop. The kiss deepens, heavy with everything he hasn’t said. Grief. Relief. Maybe even resentment.
I shift closer, sliding my hand beneath his open coat and pressing it to his chest. When my palm settles over his heart, I can feel it racing.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine.
“I thought I lost you,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t,” I say. “I’m right here.”
He swallows, and I watch his throat move, his lips twitch like he doesn’t trust the calm settling over us. Then he kisses me again—slower this time, less frantic.
I shift on the bed, scooting back to make room. Xavier doesn’t say anything, but after a second, he stands, shrugs off his coat, and kicks off his shoes. Then he lies down next to me on his side, careful not to jostle the mattress.
The bed’s too small for both of us—but I don’t care. I just want him close.
“How’d you get in here?” I murmur.
He exhales through his nose. “I know the guard.”
I snort. “Of course you do. Didn’t the nurses see you?”
Xavier doesn’t smile. “They did. But I begged them to let me in.”
I can’t hold back a laugh. “You? Begged?”
Xavier nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He just looks at me—and there’s so much grief in his face it physically hurts to meet his eyes. I start to reach for him again, but he stops me.
“Show me your back,” he says.
I pause.
He doesn’t say anything else, just waits—his gaze dark.
I roll onto my side, and he unties the gown at the back, pulling it open to expose my skin. I hear him draw a sharp breath.
“How do I look?” I ask, glancing back at him.
His jaw is clenched, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely keeping the emotion down.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Xavier doesn’t answer—but I feel his fingers brush against my skin. It hurts the way deep bruises do, but I try not to wince.
Then I feel him shift behind me, and when I move to turn toward him, his hand flies to my arm, holding me still—and a second later, his lips brush against my back.
My breath catches.
He kisses the bruises, one by one, and I feel the heat of his mouth against my skin. My stomach tightens. The moment is so tender, so fragile, I feel a flicker of guilt when my cock twitches from the contact.
“Xavier,” I call again, rolling over to face him. “Come here.”
I pull him into a kiss.
His mouth meets mine, and I kiss him deeper—trying to melt the tension, the guilt, trying to anchor him. He pushes in, his tongue brushing against mine, sparks of arousal shooting through me. His hand cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek.
“I’m fine. I promise,” I whisper against his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
Xavier’s hand drops to my side, drawing me in until our bodies are flush. It trails down my bare back, then lower—his fingers closing around my ass, kneading it. His expression shifts—sadness giving way to heat.
I reach for the front of his pants, finding him hard beneath the fabric. My pulse hammers as he leans in to kiss me again. This time, it’s all tongue and breathless urgency.
“Lock the door,” I whisper into his ear.
Xavier freezes—his gaze dark, his breath uneven. “We should wait for the MRI,” he says. “I don’t think you should be straining.”
I laugh. “Baby, I’m not planning to strain.”
His eyes flash. And when I lean in and whisper, “Please, fuck me, Xavier,” I watch something snap—his expression going feral for a heartbeat before he reins it in, pulling himself back with every shred of self-control.
“Have you ever had penetrative sex with a man before?” he asks, voice hoarse.
I laugh at the wording. “No,” I say. “But I know the gist of it.”
“We should still wait,” Xavier murmurs, almost gently, his hand catching my chin, his thumb brushing along it.
“I don’t want to wait,” I whisper, locking eyes with him, trying to pour every bit of heat I feel into that look.
“Not in the hospital,” Xavier says, his lips curving into a faint smile before brushing against my ear. I shiver as he whispers, “We don’t have lube or condoms. And if I have you the way I want to—we’ll break the bed.”
The implication knocks the air from my lungs. My breath stutters, cheeks burning.
“Alright,” I manage, barely above a whisper.
Xavier pulls back, his expression softening again. I roll onto my side, pressing my back to his chest, my heart still pounding, and he wraps his arms around me, his hands resting lightly over my stomach. I tug the blanket over us, tucking us into a warm cocoon.
Sleep pulls at me fast, and I’m teetering on the edge of dreams when Xavier’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“You told me you love me last night.”
My heart stumbles. I blink back to wakefulness. “Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “I did.”
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.
Xavier doesn’t look thrilled, but he doesn’t argue. When I offer coffee, all four immediately protest that I should be resting. I wave them off—it’s just coffee. That’s when Xavier steps in, insisting he’ll help. We leave the others in the living room and head into the kitchen together.
