Page 87 of Playing with Fire

"We should all get some rest," I said, suddenly aware of the bone-deep exhaustion settling into my limbs. The adrenaline crash was hitting hard, making every scrape and bruise from the explosion throb with renewed intensity. "We'll regroup in the morning."

Leo's hand tightened on mine, a silent reminder of his presence. Of his steadiness when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

As the others filed out, quiet conversations already forming about next steps and security protocols, Leo remained beside me, his thumb tracing soothing circles against my wrist.

"You should see War about those cuts," he said gently. "Some of them look deep."

I nodded, too tired to argue. "In the morning. Right now I just need..." I trailed off, not quite sure how to articulate what I needed. Sleep, yes. But also something more fundamental. Something only Leo seemed capable of providing.

"I know," he said, understanding without my having to explain. "Come on. Let's go to bed."

He led me from the room, his hand a warm anchor against my lower back. As we walked through the quiet corridors of the Sentinel, the events of the night kept replaying in my mind. The explosion. Algerone pinned beneath the rubble. The final glimpse of his face, determined and resigned, as I left him behind.

"He pushed me out of the way," I said abruptly as the elevator doors closed behind us. "When the bomb triggered. Algerone saw it happening, and he pushed me clear. That's how he ended up taking the worst of it."

"He saved your life."

"Yeah." The admission felt raw, exposing questions I wasn't ready to confront. "I don't know why."

Leo was quiet for a moment, considering. "Maybe because that's what fathers do," he finally said. "Even complicated ones."

I had no answer for that. The elevator arrived at our floor, the doors sliding open with a soft whisper. As we stepped out, I made my decision.

"I'll talk to Maxime first thing tomorrow," I said. "Not just because Reid suggested it, but because it's the right thing to do. Whatever Algerone's intentions were with those access codes, Maxime deserves to know about them." I paused, sorting through the complicated tangle of emotions the night had created. "And I want to tell him what Algerone's last words were. About wanting him to be happy."

Leo nodded, the gesture full of understanding. "That's important. Especially now."

As we reached our door, I hesitated, suddenly unsure. The events of the night had shaken loose something I'd kept carefully contained for most of my life. The recognition that connections mattered. That the people we chose to surround ourselves with defined us more completely than the blood in our veins ever could.

"Leo," I said, my voice rougher than intended. "Thank you. For being here. For..." I gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the depth of what I meant.

He smiled that soft, understanding smile. "Always," he promised, opening the door to our quarters. "Now come on. Let's get some rest while we can."

Theblueglowofthe clock read 3:47 AM. Sleep remained stubbornly out of reach despite the bone-deep exhaustion weighing down my limbs. Xavier lay beside me, his breathing deep and even, one arm flung possessively across my waist even in unconsciousness. The weight of it should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like an anchor tethering me to a reality I wasn't ready to face.

My body still hummed with the aftereffects of what we'd done earlier. Xavier had been almost desperate when we returned to our room, claiming me with a ferocity that spoke of his need to affirm life after staring death in the face. I bore fresh bruises beneath my borrowed t-shirt, marks that would join the collection already decorating my skin, each one a testament to the darkness we shared. The darkness I'd come to crave.

I shifted carefully to avoid waking him, turning to study his profile in the dim light filtering through the curtains. In sleep, the hard edges of his face softened, making him look younger than his twenty-three years. Only the thin line of stitches at his temple marred the illusion of peaceful slumber. A reminder of how close I'd come to losing him.

My fingers hovered over the wound, not quite touching. I'd nearly lost him. Again. The thought hit me with fresh intensity, making my chest ache. While Xavier had been fighting for his life in that compound, I'd been safe in the Sentinel, helplessly listening as communications failed and chaos erupted. I'd never felt more useless.

The clock ticked to 3:48. Another minute lost to circular thoughts that led nowhere. My mind refused to settle, jumping between jagged fragments of worry. What if Phoenix attacked again? What if next time Xavier didn't come back? What if I lost everything for a third time?

"Go back to sleep," Xavier mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. His eyes remained closed, but his arm tightened around my waist.

"Sorry," I whispered, settling back against the pillows. "Just can't turn my brain off."

He made a noncommittal sound, already drifting back into unconsciousness. The ease with which he could slip between states had always fascinated me, another mark of the control that defined everything he did. Even after the chaos of the night, the near-death experience, the loss of Algerone, Xavier could simply decide to sleep and then do it. Meanwhile, my mind raced on without permission, spinning scenarios and possibilities that grew increasingly dark with each passing hour.

It had been this way since childhood. While others slept, I'd stare into the darkness, unable to quiet the perpetual hum of my thoughts. Abuela used to find me sitting by the window in the early hours, counting stars or tracing patterns in the night sky. She never scolded, just sat beside me with her rosary beads slipping through gnarled fingers, prayers whispered in Spanish that washed over me like gentle rain.

The memory of her voice sent an unexpected wave of longing through me. It had been three years since I'd walked away from my family, leaving behind everything familiar to preserve the one part of myself I couldn't deny.

Three years of silence.

Were they still in the same house on Mariposa Street? Did Mom still tend her garden of native plants, sorting them by medicinal properties just as her mother had taught her? Did Dad still coach little league on weekends, his booming voice carrying across the diamond as he encouraged his team? Did they ever think of me, their only son, the boy they'd raised with such care, only to discard when he failed to meet their expectations?

I closed my eyes, but instead of darkness, I saw my father's face the last time we'd spoken. Not angry, as I'd expected, but devastated. As if I'd personally attacked him by being who I was. "This isn't just about you," he'd said, voice low and controlled despite the tears standing in his eyes. "This is about our family's place in the community. About your mother's reputation at the school where she teaches. About the example you set for your cousins."

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