The world had returned.

Skyscrapers stood tall again. Electricity flowed. Satellites blinked back to life. The hum of civilization had resumed, and with it, the quiet rhythm of your shared life with Xeno.

He was busier than ever—consulting, rebuilding, lecturing. But he always came home to you. Always.

Until today.

You’d spent the afternoon at a science symposium, invited to speak about post-revival adaptation strategies. Xeno had declined the invitation—too many politics, too little precision. You understood. You went alone.

And you spoke well.

Too well, apparently.

When you returned to the apartment, he was already there—standing by the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the skyline. You greeted him softly, setting your bag down, waiting for the usual nod or quiet “welcome back.”

But he didn’t turn.

“They seemed… quite taken with you,” he said at last.

You blinked. “Who?”

“The panel. The audience. That young physicist who lingered after your talk.”

You smiled, amused. “You watched the stream?”

“I always do.”

You walked toward him, slow and deliberate. “Are you upset?”

He hesitated. “No.”

Then, after a beat—

“I’m… aware.”

You stopped beside him, close enough to feel the tension in his posture. “Of what?”

He turned to you then, eyes sharp but uncertain. “Of how easily people are drawn to you. How they listen. How they look.”

You reached up, brushing a strand of white hair from his temple. “And you think I didn’t notice how you looked at me when I walked in?”

He didn’t answer.

You leaned in, voice low. “You’re jealous.”

He blinked, as if the word itself were foreign. “I don’t experience jealousy.”

“You do now.”

He exhaled, slow and quiet. “It’s inefficient.”

You smiled. “It’s human.”

He studied you for a moment, then reached for your hand—cool fingers curling around yours, grounding himself in the one variable he couldn’t control.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” you replied. “But it’s nice to know you care enough to worry.”

And in that moment, beneath the hum of a restored world, Xeno Houston Wingfield felt something he couldn’t quantify.

And he let it stay.