A week.
It's been a week since Xavier woke up, and I've spent every single hour of it in this hospital room. Sleeping in the uncomfortable vinyl chair beside his bed that leaves permanent creases in my skin, eating stale vending machine food that all tastes like cardboard and regret, wearing the same three outfits on rotation because I refuse to go home long enough to get more clothes. The hospital has become my entire world—fluorescent lights that hum constantly, the antiseptic smell that clings to everything, the steady beep of monitors that I now hear in my sleep.
Right now, I'm changing my shirt in the small corner near the bathroom—stripping off yesterday's wrinkled t-shirt that smells like hospital soap and my own anxiety sweat. I pull on a clean one I borrowed from Zay three days ago. The fabric is soft from wear, smells like his cologne—woodsy and warm with hints of cedar—and for a second I let myself breathe it in, let the familiar scent ground me before tugging it over my head.
"You know," Xavier's voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough in that way that used to make my knees weak, still does if I'm being honest, "you could warn a guy before you start a strip show."
I glance over my shoulder, pulling my hair free from the collar. He's propped up against a small mountain of pillows, eyes dark and focused entirely on me with an intensity that makes heat crawl up my neck. There's hunger in that gaze—real, unmistakable hunger—and it makes something flutter low in my stomach, pushes back the constant anxiety that's been eating me alive.
"It's not a strip show," I counter, turning back around to finish adjusting the borrowed shirt, smoothing down the hem. "It's called getting dressed. People do it every day."
"Could've fooled me," he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "From this angle, it looked a lot like a preview of coming attractions."
I roll my eyes but I'm smiling despite everything, despite the memories that won't stop playing on loop, despite the guilt that sits heavy in my chest. "You're supposed to be recovering, not objectifying me."
"I can multitask," he insists. "Besides, it's your fault for being so damn distracting. Walking around here in my hoodie, stealing clothes from Zay, looking like every fantasy I've had for the past week."
The words send warmth spreading through me. I walk over to the bed, lean down to press a quick kiss to his lips. They're chapped from the dry hospital air but still soft, still familiar. He catches the back of my neck before I can pull away, fingerstangling in my hair, deepening the kiss until I'm breathless and my knees are actually weak.
"Xavier," I murmur against his mouth, trying to pull back. "The nurses?—"
"The nurses can knock," he cuts me off, trailing kisses along my jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me shiver. "Come here. I've barely gotten to touch you all week."
"That's because you've been asleep or in too much pain to move," I point out, but I'm already climbing onto the bed beside him, shifting carefully to avoid the tubes and wires that connect him to various machines, the IV in his arm, the heart monitor leads attached to his chest.
His hands find my waist immediately, slide under the borrowed shirt to rest on bare skin. His palms are warm, slightly rough, grounding. "I'm feeling much better now."
"Oh yeah?" I raise an eyebrow, settling more comfortably against him. "All of you feeling better? Because last I checked, you still can't feel your?—"
"I wiggled my toes two days ago," he interrupts, voice filled with genuine pride. "Left foot. Three toes. The physical therapist nearly cried. Rita said it was the best sign she's seen in weeks."
"I know," I deadpan. "Really great. But I wasn't asking about those toes."
He blinks, processing. Then understanding dawns and his grin turns wicked, transforms his whole face. "You mean my third leg?"
"Don't say it like that, it sounds gross," I protest, laughing despite myself, despite everything. The sound feels foreign inmy throat—I haven't laughed properly in days. "I'm asking if everything works. You know.Everything."
"Why?" he asks, eyes gleaming with mischief and heat. "You planning to test it out?"
"Maybe," I admit, letting my hand trail down his chest, over the thin hospital gown that does nothing to hide the solid warmth of him, lower. "If you're up for it."
He groans when my fingers find him through the fabric, already half-hard. His breath catches. "Val?—"
"Is that a yes?" I ask innocently, watching his face, watching the way his pupils dilate, the way his jaw clenches.
"That's a hell yes," he breathes, voice rough with want.
I glance at the door—closed, no nurses in sight, the small window covered by the privacy curtain I pulled earlier. Then back at him, meeting his eyes. "You sure you're okay? I don't want to hurt you. Your chest?—"
"You won't," he insists firmly, one hand coming up to cup my face. "And even if you did, it would be worth it. I need this. Need you."
I slide off the bed, kneel on the cold linoleum floor between his legs. The tiles are hard against my knees, unforgiving, but I barely notice. His breath catches, comes faster as I reach for the hospital gown, push the thin fabric aside.
"Valentina—"
"Shh," I murmur, wrapping my fingers around him, feeling him pulse in my palm. "Let me take care of you."
What follows is slow and careful and intimate in a way that makes my chest ache with something that isn't guilt or fear. His hand tangles in my hair, gentle but insistent, fingers threading through the strands. I lose myself in the act of bringing him pleasure, in the sound of his breathing going ragged and uneven, in the way he says my name like a prayer, like I'm something sacred instead of broken.