The rain hadn’t let up all night, but Xavier barely noticed it now. He stood in her living room, his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. The room was dim, save for the soft glow of the lamp beside the couch — her favorite one, the one she always left on when she was home late.

She’s not okay. He knew it the second she opened the door earlier — the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, how her voice lacked its usual warmth. She’d brushed it off, of course — “Just tired,” she’d said — but Xavier knew better.

Now, she sat curled up on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, gaze unfocused on the TV. She hadn’t said much since he got here. Just a quiet “You can stay if you want,” like she didn’t have the energy to ask him to leave.

He hated seeing her like this. Quiet. Closed off. Like she was carrying something too heavy to put into words.

Xavier shifted, crossing the room and lowering himself beside her. “Hey,” he murmured. “Come here.”

She didn’t move at first, but after a beat, she unfolded just enough to lean into him. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing uneven. He felt her fingers brush tentatively against his sleeve, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to hold on.

“Do you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly, his voice soft but steady.