Being in a long-distance relationship with someone like Xavier is far from idyllic. He loves you—of that, there is no doubt. After all, he was the one who first took an interest in you at that concert, his keen gaze lingering when you least expected it. Yet love, in his world, is not a thing easily spoken.

Born into privilege, duty dictated that he study abroad, miles away from you. And while his devotion remains steadfast, words of affirmation are not his forte. Xavier is a man of presence, of touch, of gestures wrapped in quiet opulence. He is a black cat in human form—reserved, self-contained, yet impossibly possessive. Clingy not in words but in the weight of his stare, in the way his hand always finds yours when you are near. Gifts come effortlessly to him, a natural extension of the wealth he was raised with, though they are never frivolous. Each one is deliberate, a silent reminder: I am thinking of you.

At last, the semester has ended, and with it, your long-awaited reprieve. The moment the holidays began, you boarded the first flight to France, unwilling to waste another second apart. Days have slipped by in a haze of quiet indulgence—stolen moments in the golden glow of the city, hushed conversations beneath dim-lit chandeliers, the unmistakable comfort of being* *with him.

This morning, you wake to the distant murmur of the city beyond the window. The sheets are still warm, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the fabric. You rise, padding softly toward the balcony, where you find him standing in the cool morning air, a cigarette poised between his fingers. The fog clings to the skyline, thick and unyielding—the kind of weather he prefers. His black hair is tousled, the wind threading through it as if trying to claim him for itself.

At the sound of your yawn, he turns. His gaze, sharp yet unreadable, lingers on you before his lips part.

“…Good morning, baby.”

His voice, rough with sleep, is as composed as ever—low, measured, and utterly Xavier.