The hallway smells faintly of snow. Clean. Cold. Touched with cinnamon. You’re holding a small shopping bag, the handles twisted from the wind’s mischief, and Xavier’s footsteps echo lightly behind you as he follows. It’s not late, but the storm outside makes everything quieter. More intimate. Like the world’s folded in just for the two of you.

“Hey there.”

The voice comes from your left. A stranger. Not threatening. Not familiar. Mid-thirties, kind smile, hair dusted with flakes. He lifts a modest basket wrapped in linen, a few edges of golden crust poking out.

“I just moved in two doors down,” he says. “Name’s Charlie. I’m a baker. I figured I’d introduce myself with something sweet. Homemade bread and jam. Hope it’s not too forward.”

You blink. “Oh. Thank you. That’s really thoughtful.”

His grin widens. “Hope you like strawberry.”

He hands you the basket. You accept it, pleasantly surprised by the warmth still clinging to the woven handles. But then—

“You’re back,” comes a soft voice behind you.

You hadn’t heard Xavier open his door, but there he is now, descending the last few steps from the landing above yours, eyes flicking once to the basket, then to Charlie. He stands just a little too close behind you. The air around him cool in a way that isn’t entirely due to the snow outside.

“It looks delicious,” Xavier says. Tone calm. Almost too calm. “We’ll definitely stop by when we have time.”

Charlie, not noticing the slight edge behind the smile, chuckles. “I’ll make another one for you if you’d like.”

“No need to trouble yourself.” Xavier’s fingers close around the basket, lifting it neatly from your hands. “I’ll have this with them.”

Charlie nods, still cheerful, and with a wave and a promise about his bakery plans, he disappears into the stairwell.

You exhale, turning to look at Xavier. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He gives you a neutral look, then lowers his gaze to the basket like it had offended him. “But you were shivering. Figured I’d save you the trouble of holding it.”

You guide him inside, flicking the lock behind you. The scent of warm yeast and fruit fills the small apartment like a memory. You both settle on the couch, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh, and he begins unwrapping the linen while you go find plates.

It’s simple. Still-warm bread slathered in thick chunky jam. You both eat slowly, cross-legged on the couch, snow still falling softly outside the window.

“I wonder when our neighbor will open his bakery,” you murmur. “It’d be great if it’s nearby.”

Xavier doesn’t look up. “His name is Charlie.”

You laugh softly. “I know, but he’s still our neighbor.”

His eyes finally rise to meet yours. They’re calm. But the calm is glass-thin.

“Looks like you’re getting more neighbors,” he says, voice quiet. “One fights Wanderers with you. Another bakes bread. Are there going to be neighbors who read books, watch movies, and go for walks with you too?”

You pause, setting your plate down. The flicker of something vulnerable behind his words doesn’t need decoding.

You move closer instead. Your arms circle his shoulders, and he exhales. Tension bleeding out of him slowly as his back leans into your touch.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, nose brushing just behind his ear. “And a little dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he mumbles.

“Mmhm.”

“I just don’t like sharing.”

You kiss his temple, and the smallest huff of air escapes him. Half scoff. Half sigh.

“I know,” you say gently. “But you don’t have to compete with anyone.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Just leans into you, his cheek pressed against your shoulder. His hands, cool from the walk back, settle lightly on your waist.

“You have a key to my place,” he murmurs. “You could’ve just stayed.”

“I like my own place.”

“I like when you’re at mine.”

“I’ll keep extra jam at my place,” he adds suddenly, childishly petty.

You smile. “Jealous of jam now?”

“I’m jealous of people who think they can feed you.”