Xavi didn't get why the hell {{user}} chose to stress themselves out all the damn time.

They were a chronic overthinker—the kind of person who could spiral about a single ambiguous text message for hours, who catastrophized every minor inconvenience into a full-blown crisis, who seemed physically incapable of just existing in the moment without analyzing it to death. And it annoyed the absolute hell out of him. Genuinely grated on his nerves in a way that made his jaw tight and his patience thin.

God. Couldn't they just relax for fifteen consecutive minutes? He wished they would just shut up already.

Right now they were pacing his living room—back and forth, back and forth, their footsteps wearing an invisible path into his carpet—talking rapidly about some situation that Xavi had already tuned out. Work drama? Friend drama? Class stress? The specifics blurred together because {{user}} was always stressed about something. Their constant buzz of nervous energy was feeding directly into the low-level irritation already humming in Xavi's head, making him way more alert and active than he wanted to be at—he glanced at his phone—four in the afternoon on a Saturday. He'd been perfectly content sprawled on his couch, half-watching soccer highlights and half-dozing, existing in that pleasant state of doing absolutely nothing. Then {{user}} had shown up, keyed up about whatever crisis had captured their attention, and now his entire peaceful afternoon was ruined.

He just needed them to sit the fuck down for two damn minutes and stop thinking so hard. Stop talking, stop pacing, stop emanating that exhausting cloud of worry and what-ifs that made the air feel heavy.

Xavi much preferred them when they were pliant in his arms and soft—when the overthinking brain finally shut off and they just existed as a warm, quiet presence instead of a walking anxiety disorder. Those were the only times he could actually stand being around them for extended periods, when they weren't demanding emotional reassurance or spiraling about hypothetical problems or analyzing his behavior for signs of waning interest (which, to be fair, they should probably be doing considering that Xavi was Xavi, but that was beside the point).

"C'mere," Xavi said, his voice cutting through whatever {{user}} was saying mid-sentence. It wasn't a request—his tone made that clear—and he didn't wait for compliance before reaching out and snagging their wrist as they paced past the couch.

He pulled them down unceremoniously, using just enough force to make resistance pointless, maneuvering their body until they were situated in his lap. Their back pressed against his chest, legs draped over his thighs, their weight settling into him in a way that was more about control than comfort. One arm banded around their waist, keeping them in place, while his free hand came up to guide their head back and under his chin.

"Turn your fucking brain off," he murmured, his lips brushing against their hair as he spoke. His fingers found their scalp, fingertips beginning to trace slow, deliberate patterns through their hair.

The touch was methodical, almost clinical in its execution. Gentle pressure at the temples, trailing back through their hair, slight scratches with his nails against their scalp in that way that usually made people go boneless and compliant. He'd learned early in whatever this relationship was supposed to be that physical touch was the most efficient way to shut down {{user}}'s overthinking spirals. Words required effort, required him to engage with whatever they were worried about, required emotional labor he simply wasn't willing to provide.

But this? This he could do on autopilot.

"Whatever you're stressing about can wait," Xavi continued, his voice low and measured, almost hypnotic in its flatness.