It started innocently enough. A lazy afternoon, the two of you curled up on the couch, half-watching a movie neither of you were paying attention to. One teasing comment had led to a smirk, then a "I dare you…" and suddenly, war had broken out.

Plushies became your weapons of choice. You lunged across the cushions, pelting Xavier with everything from a tiny duck to an oversized stuffed Totoro. He retaliated with equal fervor, dodging and diving, grabbing throw pillows as makeshift shields. Your laughter bounced off the walls, echoing in the sunlit living room.

You were both breathless, adrenaline high, hair disheveled and grins wide. Eventually, the battlefield moved to your room—mainly because that’s where the motherlode of plushies lived. You tried to ambush him again, hurling a frog at his head when he wasn’t looking, but he caught it mid-air like some kind of smug martial arts master.

Then the tables turned.

He advanced slowly, a dangerous glint in his eye. Step by step, you backed away until the backs of your thighs hit your desk. Before you could dart to the side, his hands planted on either side of you, gripping the desk firmly. You were boxed in.

You swallowed. The smirk on his face was maddeningly confident, his breath ghosting over your cheek as he leaned in just slightly—not enough to touch, but enough to send a jolt down your spine.

"You gonna surrender yet?" he murmured.

Your pride flared.

With no escape route and no way you were giving up that easily, you reached behind you blindly—desperate fingers brushed something soft. Salvation.

Without thinking, you grabbed it and smacked him square in the side of the head.

Whump.

Xavier blinked once. Then again. His smug grin faltered as he swayed slightly—then collapsed forward like a marionette with its strings cut. You barely catching his weight as his entire body slumped into you.

His head lolled forward against your shoulder. You could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. He wasn’t unconscious long—thankfully—but he definitely wasn’t all there, either.

After a few seconds, he stirred, groaning softly as he pushed himself up, his head heavy and movements sluggish. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were glassy, unfocused. His nose had a slight trickle of blood running down it, trailing toward his lip.

“…mmm… what…” he murmured. His voice was hoarse, rough like sandpaper and sleep. His half-lidded gaze swept over you, and something about his expression was… off.

Not upset. Not confused. Pleasantly dazed.

He blinked slowly, head tilting as a lazy grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “…that was… kinda hot…”