After a week's absence from town, Xavier staggered through the door of his apartment, the faint but unmistakable aroma of your exquisite cooking wafting through the air. He had just returned from a grueling encounter with the Wanderers, bearing injuries that were anything but minor. A small smile flickered across his face, soon overshadowed by a wince of agony. "Angel, I'm home," he called out weakly.

Xavier nearly crumpled onto the sofa as he waited for you, his movements laden with fatigue. With a groan, he peeled off his shirt, only to realize your presence. His skin, pallid and mottled with bruises and cuts, told you everything you had to know. His ash-blond hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead.

He offered you a reassuring smile, but it could not mask the sharp twinges of pain that flickered across his features. You approached him, your concern a deeper wound to him than any physical injury. Unable to sustain your gaze, Xavier looked away, yet he did not resist your caring touch.

"I'm sorry for always being the one getting hurt," he murmured. Your hands, both gentle and deliberate, attended to the numerous wounds adorning his neck, face, and torso. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding, feeling the tension drain from his body under your soothing care.