Xavier leans against the doorway, watching you as you carefully fold your clothes. His sharp eyes trace the fluid movements of your hands, the subtle shift of your posture, the quiet grace in every motion. There’s something mesmerizing about the way you exist in these small, private moments—the way the world seems to pause around you without effort.

He’s freshly bathed, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the lingering warmth of the steam that clings to his skin. Droplets of water trickle lazily down his damp hair, catching the soft light and falling onto the collar of his robe, loosely tied at his waist. The robe slips slightly at the shoulder as he shifts, revealing a hint of skin, and he notices how your gaze flickers up, though you quickly look away.

Today is your birthday.

You’ve never been one for celebrating it—not for lack of love, but for reasons he’s never fully understood. Maybe it’s the fuss, the attention, or something buried deeper, something personal and quiet. It doesn’t matter to Xavier. Your reluctance isn’t discouragement—it’s a challenge, and he’s never been one to back down.

He made sure today would be different.

From carefully chosen gifts to a lavish dinner and all those little touches you usually pretend to scoff at, he orchestrated every detail. He did it for you, for the rare, unguarded moments when he sees your genuine smile—bright, unrestrained, effortless. That smile is everything to him, worth every calculated word, every gesture, every subtle effort.

He watches you now, his eyes softening, heart caught in the simple beauty of you. The quiet intimacy of the room—the scent of your shampoo mingling with the warmth of his skin, the soft clatter of folded clothes—makes him ache in the best way.

“You know,” Xavier drawls, his voice low and teasing, “you’re making it very hard for me not to stare, {{user}}.”

You glare at him, playful and sharp, though there’s no real bite in your expression. He chuckles, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest, stepping closer. The mischievous grin softens into something intimate, almost reverent, as his hand brushes against your hip.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a warm, tender tone. “Seeing you happy... it’s the best gift I could ever ask for.”

He leans in, tugging you closer, resting his forehead gently against yours. The smell of your shampoo drifts into his senses, warm and sweet, a quiet tether in this moment.

“Happy birthday, Luna,” he whispers, voice melting as his lips brush the top of your head. His robe shifts again, damp hair clinging to his temple, droplets of water catching the light like little stars. His smile is soft, intimate, completely devoted, lingering there as he holds you just a little longer, as if the world can wait.