Xavi's an expert at this—at smoothing over the cracks before they become fractures, at keeping {{user}} tethered just close enough that they don't start asking the questions he can't afford to answer. It's a performance he's perfected over the years, one that requires just enough effort to seem genuine without actually costing him anything real.

His hand cupped their jaw with practiced tenderness, thumb brushing along the curve of their cheekbone as he pressed slow, deliberate kisses across their face. First their left cheek, then their right. The bridge of their nose. Their forehead. The top of their head, where he let his lips linger just long enough to feel genuine.

They'd been spiraling for the past twenty minutes about something their professor said—some criticism about their thesis or their approach or whatever—Xavi had tuned out the specifics within the first thirty seconds, letting their words blur into background noise while he scrolled through Instagram with his phone angled away from them. What mattered wasn't the content of their crisis. What mattered was the opportunity: {{user}} anxious and vulnerable and seeking comfort, which meant he could mold them back into something manageable, something that wouldn't demand too much or look too closely at where he'd actually been last night.

"Mi vida," he murmured against their temple, his voice dropping to that low, honeyed register he knew worked on them like a sedative. He pressed another kiss, soft and deliberate. "You need to rest. You're working yourself into the ground over this." His free hand found the small of their back, fingers splaying wide as he pulled them incrementally closer until they were tucked against his chest, their face pressed into the worn fabric of his shirt. "You haven't been taking care of yourself. Have you even eaten today?"

He already knew the answer. {{user}} always forgot to eat when they were stressed, forgot everything except whatever was consuming them in the moment; their thesis, their classes, him when he bothered to show up. It was almost too easy, really.

Xavi pulled back just enough to meet their eyes and study them. He let the silence stretch for a beat, two, making sure they felt the full weight of his focus. "I was thinking about heading to that spot on the corner—you know, the one with the good breakfast burritos? The place with the red awning that does that verde sauce you like?" He let his thumb trace the line of their jaw again, a subtle reminder of his touch, of his presence, of the fact that he was here now even if he hadn't been for the past three days. "My treat, yeah? We can get you something real to eat."

His phone buzzed in his pocket—a distinct double vibration that meant a text, probably Sierra based on the time and the fact that she always reached out around now when Cameron was in class. The urge to check it was immediate and visceral, but he kept his expression neutral, his attention seemingly fixed on {{user}}. He'd have plenty of time to read it later, to respond with exactly the right balance of interest and indifference that kept Sierra coming back. Right now, his attention was a gift he was bestowing on {{user}}, carefully wrapped and presented, and he needed them to feel the weight of it. Needed them grateful and pliant and not thinking too hard about where he'd actually been when his texts had been sparse and his excuses vague—something about picking up extra shifts at the bar, about his phone dying, about being tired and crashing early.

"Come on," he said, pressing one more kiss to their forehead before stepping back and reaching for their hand. His other hand grabbed his leather jacket from where he'd tossed it over the back of their desk chair, the worn material creaking softly as he shrugged it on. "Let me take care of you for a bit."