"I said no. I'm done for today."
"We have three more exercises to complete?—"
"And I'm telling you I'm done," he interrupts, voice hard and flat. "Help me back to the chair. Now."
I sit back on my heels, studying him carefully. His face is gray with pain and exhaustion, yes, but there's something else there too. Frustration radiating off him in waves. Anger simmering just beneath the surface. Fear, maybe, buried deep under all the bravado—fear that this is as good as it gets, that he'll never walk again, that he's broken permanently.
"You're being a bad patient," I tell him gently.
"And you're being a pain in the ass," he shoots back immediately.
"I'm trying to help you."
"I didn't ask for your help."
The words sting more than they should. I know he doesn't mean it—know he's lashing out because he hates being weak, hates needing help with basic functions like getting dressed or using the bathroom, hates that his body betrayed him in the most fundamental way. But it still hurts, cuts deeper than I want to admit.
"Fine," I say, starting to stand, wiping my palms on my jeans. "Do it yourself then."
His hand shoots out, catches my wrist in a grip that's surprisingly strong. "Wait."
I pause, looking down at where his fingers circle my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to keep me in place.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, and the fight drains out of his voice. "That was—I didn't mean that. I'm just?—"
"In pain," I finish for him. "And frustrated. And tired of feeling helpless. I know. I get it."
He pulls me back down beside him, not letting go of my wrist. His thumb rubs absent circles on the inside of my wrist, over my pulse point. "But that's not your fault. None of this is your fault. And I shouldn't take it out on you."
"No, you shouldn't," I agree. "But I understand. If I were in your position, I'd probably be worse. I'd probably have given up by now."
"Doubt that," he mutters, finally releasing my wrist. "You ran an entire motorcycle club for three weeks while I was unconscious. Dealt with Johnson and George trying to stage a coup. Kept everything together. You're tougher than you think."
The compliment makes my throat tight, makes the guilt sitting heavy in my chest feel even heavier. Because he doesn't know. He doesn't know what I'm capable of, what I did, what I might be.
A flash—Marcus's face, eyes wide with surprise. The pipe in my hand. The swing. The sound.
I push it away, force myself to focus on the present. On Xavier, here, now, needing me.
"Three more exercises," I say, changing the subject before he can see whatever's written on my face. "Then you're done for the day. I promise. Deal?"
"No deal."
"Xavier—"
"Let me finish," he interrupts, and that hint of a smile is back, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No deal unless you sweeten the pot."
I raise an eyebrow. "Sweeten the pot how?"
His lips curve into something that might be a real smile if he wasn't in so much pain. "Kiss for every exercise I complete properly."
"That's bribery."
"That's incentive," he counters, eyes brightening slightly despite the exhaustion. "And I think I've earned it, don't you? Three weeks in a coma, bullet wound, paralysis, shitty hospital food that tasted like cardboard mixed with sadness?—"
"Okay, okay," I laugh despite everything, despite the weight crushing my chest. "You've made your point. One kiss per exercise."
"Done properly," he emphasizes, pointing at me. "No half-assing it."