Valentina has the wheelchair ready, locked in place. I lower Xavier into it carefully, watching his face for signs of painbeyond what the meds are masking. He's pale, sweating slightly despite the cool afternoon air.
"You good?" I ask.
"Peachy," he lies.
I grab the bags from the back—medications, supplies, clothes that Valentina packed. She's already moving ahead to unlock the front door, keys jingling in her shaking hands. It takes her three tries to get the key in the lock.
The house smells stale, unused. Dust motes float in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. I wheel Xavier inside, Valentina holding the door open, and take stock. Living room to the right, kitchen straight ahead, hallway to the left leading to bedrooms and bathroom.
"Master bedroom is accessible," I tell Xavier, heading down the hall. "Ground floor, attached bathroom with a walk-in shower that has grab bars. I had someone come out yesterday and install a shower chair."
"You thought of everything," Xavier observes.
"That's literally my job."
The bedroom is spacious—queen bed with a metal frame, dresser, two nightstands. Large windows with blackout curtains. I wheel him next to the bed, set the brake.
"You need help getting in?" I ask.
"No," he says immediately. Then, quieter: "Yeah."
Valentina appears in the doorway, hovering. "I can?—"
"Val, can you put the groceries away?" I interrupt gently. "Make sure we have everything for dinner?"
She looks like she wants to protest, but something in my expression makes her nod. "Okay. Yeah. I'll... I'll do that."
She disappears and I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen.
"She's been like this all week?" Xavier asks, watching the doorway.
"Worse," I admit, moving to help him transfer from chair to bed. "She barely sleeps. Barely eats. Won't talk about what happened at the Vipers. Something's broken in her, X. I don't know how to fix it."
He grabs my shoulder for support as I help him shift his weight. His legs drag uselessly. "Fuck," he hisses.
"Easy. We've got time."
It takes three attempts, but we finally get him situated on the bed, legs stretched out, pillows propped behind him. He's breathing hard, face gray with pain and exhaustion.
"Pain meds are in the bag," I tell him. "The white bottle. Two pills every six hours."
"Not yet," he says. "They make me useless."
"You just got out of the hospital. You're supposed to be useless."
"There's too much to do. The club?—"
"The club is handled," I interrupt firmly. "I've been running things with Asher. Everyone knows you're recovering. Nobody expects you back for at least a month."
"A month." He says it like it's a death sentence.
"Xavier." I sit on the edge of the bed, meeting his eyes. "You got shot. You were in a coma for three weeks. Your legs don't work. You need time to heal. That's not weakness, that's biology."
He's quiet for a moment, jaw working. Then: "What's really going on with Val?"
I consider lying. Decide he deserves better. "I don't know. Something happened at the Vipers that night. Something beyond Talia staying. She came back different. Broken. And she won't let anyone in."
"She let you in," he points out.