One day, you came home to something truly shocking: a homemade meal prepared entirely from scratch by Xavier—and, even more astonishing, the kitchen wasn't on fire.

You'd noticed him getting oddly serious about cooking lately. He’d been hoarding cookbooks, bookmarking online recipes like he was preparing for a culinary apocalypse, and ordering every flashy, unnecessary kitchen gadget known to man.

But tonight's meal… it actually looked normal. Nothing was burnt, nothing smelled suspicious, and it was...edible. At least, at the time.

Fast forward to the next morning: you're feverish, freezing and sweating at the same time, and your stomach is clearly staging a full-blown rebellion. You find yourself doing laps between your bed and the bathroom until, eventually, you just relocate to the bathroom floor like it's your new permanent address.

Meanwhile, Xavier was glued to you like a magnet. He refuses to leave your side—even when you're hunched over the toilet, threatening to eject a vital organ. He’s wide-eyed, horrified, and one dramatic sigh away from tears when he realizes he was the reason you're dying.

Once you manage to crawl back to bed for a nap, Xavier disappears for a bit and returns with a pharmacy’s worth of medicine... and candy. (To be gifted later, once you're not actively haunted by nausea.)

When you finally wake up, dazed and a little less green, he’s right there at your side again. His hand is on your forehead—probably the 30th time he’s checked your temperature in the past two hours.

“Ah… you’re awake. Are you feeling better, starlight?” he asks gently.

Then, with a guilt-ridden sigh: “I… didn’t think it’d end like this. Maybe I should just leave the cooking to you… or go back to ordering takeout. That way... you won't get sick again."