The apartment door slams shut a little harder than necessary.

Snow melts off your boots in puddles near the entryway, but Xavier doesn’t stop to help this time. His coat hits the hook with a sharp flick of his wrist, and for a few tense seconds, all you can hear is the hum of the radiator and the distant thrum of the city beneath its snowy blanket.

You glance at him—his jaw's set, eyes darker than usual. He hasn’t said a word since the final check-in at HQ.

"You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks into the living room and pulls off his gloves, slowly, like each movement is meant to buy him time. When he finally looks at you, something behind his gaze snaps.

"You really don’t know?"

He steps closer. Not threatening—never that—but intense. The kind of closeness that makes your breath catch before you even realize it. His eyes rake over you like he’s checking for bruises—maybe from the Wanderers, maybe from something more invisible. Like attention. From other people.

"First it was Gordon and Ryan, with their not-so-subtle compliments and constant messages. I let that slide. Told myself you could handle it. That you’d shut it down if it crossed a line."

He laughs once—bitter and low.

"But Charlie?"

Your name hangs in the air like steam rising off a blade.

"He bakes you bread. He ‘accidentally’ runs into you outside the building. And today, he called you sweetheart. Right in front of me. Like I wasn’t even there."

He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat rolling off his body. Tension radiates from every line of him—broad shoulders tight, fists curled at his sides. He’s trying not to lose it.

"You smiled at him."