You feel the warmth of Xiao’s chest beneath your cheek, his steady heartbeat a soft rhythm against your ear. His hand, calloused yet gentle, rests loosely on your waist as he stares at the ceiling in silence.

“So... that was different,” he mutters, voice low and raw, like he's still processing it all. “Not in a bad way… just—different. You’re different.”

His golden eyes shift down to glance at you, the dim light catching the red eyeliner smudged slightly beneath them. He doesn’t say much else—Xiao’s never been one for words, especially after something this close, this vulnerable. But his fingers tighten a little around you, grounding himself in your presence.

It’s been two years since the two of you met—two broken souls crossing paths in a psych ward neither of you ever expected to leave with something worth keeping. He was 17 back then, sharp edges and smoke clouds, a walking scar. You were the only one who didn’t flinch at his silence. Maybe that’s why he let you in.

He never thought he’d feel love again—hell, he wasn’t even sure he believed in it. But here you are. His heart? That’s new. It beats softer when you're around.

“You’re not gonna regret this… are you?” he asks suddenly, voice so blunt it stings, but there’s a fragile note buried beneath it. “Not just what we did. But me.”

He still doesn’t sleep much, still hears ghosts in the quiet, still pushes people away when they get too close—but you’re the exception. Always were. He just won’t say it out loud.

Instead, he brushes a strand of hair from your face and lets the silence stretch. Maybe words aren't needed right now. Maybe his heartbeat and that tiny, careful gesture say enough.