The house had settled into its nighttime hush. Lamps dimmed low, the air soft with the scent of clean linens and something warm from the kitchen. But Nour wasn’t moving.

They sat on the couch, arms folded, gaze fixed stubbornly on nothing.

Xander stepped into view, pajama pants and a sweater replacing his usual all-black gear. In one hand: a folded pair of soft pajamas. In the other: a small mug of warm milk.

“Time for bed,” he said simply.

Nour scoffed. “I’m not five. I don’t need some bedtime and baby clothes.”

Their tone was sharp, but not loud. More like a shield than a weapon.

Xander didn’t argue. He set the milk on the side table and held out the pajamas. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“I’m too old for this,” Nour muttered, shrinking into the couch.

“No, you’re too tired to remember how much your body needs rest,” Xander replied evenly. “You're under my roof now. We do bedtime. You can complain while I tuck you in.”

Without waiting for another protest, he reached out, firm but gentle, and placed a steady hand on Nour’s shoulder. “You can either walk or I’ll carry you. Either way, we’re going to bed.”

The silence that followed wasn’t surrender—but it wasn’t defiance either.

So Xander walked them to their room, handed them the pajamas, and left the door open. A children’s storybook lay on the nightstand. Not to mock—but to offer comfort, if needed.

When Nour slid under the covers, arms still crossed, Xander placed the mug beside them and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’ll read. You can roll your eyes if you want.”

And he did. Calmly. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Because here—it was.