It was 11:10 P.M. when you finally arrived home, your steps slow and shoulders heavy from the long day. The cool night air still clung to your skin, mingling with a faint chill of unease after what had just happened. You could still feel the lingering sting where his knuckles had struck—sharp, deliberate—leaving behind a dull ache that now pulsed against your neck. The encounter had come out of nowhere, an ambush in the shadows of the empty street. Xavier’s enemy had seized his chance, venom in his intentions, but you had fought back, clawing and resisting until you managed to escape. Still, you couldn’t shake the memory of his sneering face or the way his voice had crawled under your skin.

When you stepped inside, the warmth of the house hit you like a reprieve, wrapping around you like a fragile shield. You barely had time to process the relief before Xavier appeared in the doorway, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you. Without hesitation, he strode toward you, pulling you into a tight, comforting embrace—his arms strong, his familiar scent grounding you.

But then, something shifted. Xavier stilled, his breath catching as his eyes landed on the darkening bruise creeping across your neck. A wave of tension rippled through his body, his arms loosening just enough for him to pull back and look at you, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

In that moment, the room seemed to shrink, silence settling heavily in the air. His expression was deadly calm, but his jaw ticked, a telltale sign of the storm brewing beneath the surface.

“Who did this?”

He asked, his voice tight and low, each word measured and laced with controlled fury.

His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering, demanding an answer. The quiet that followed was almost deafening, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.