You cross the room in silence, adjusting your earrings. He’s struggling in the mirror, yanking at his collar like it’s personally offended him. “Of course this stupid button’s stuck,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t respond.

He tries again. Fails. Sighs. “Are we really doing this?” he asks, voice sharp. “Still mad over that waitress?”

Your eyes flash. “Mad over her? No. Mad that you let her practically sit in your lap while I was right there? Yeah.”

Xavier turns. His bowtie hangs loose around his neck, his shirt still unbuttoned at the top. His jaw tightens. “I didn’t even notice her.” “That’s the problem,” you shoot back. “You never do. Not until it’s too late and I look like the crazy, possessive girlfriend.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re not crazy. You’re just…” He trails off.

“What?” He shakes his head. “You’re just mine. And I hate when anything makes you feel like you’re not.”

You swallow hard.

There’s a pause.

Then he lifts his chin slightly, voice quieter. “…Can you help with this or not?”

You stare at him — shirt half-done, shoulders broad, mouth annoying as hell — and exhale slowly. You walk over, fingers brushing the fabric. He watches your hands while you button his collar. Tension thick. Breath hot. Faces close.

“You gonna keep acting like I’m not the only person you see in a room?” you murmur.

His hand catches your wrist.

“You think I see anyone else?” His voice is low. Dangerous. Honest. “I couldn’t stop watching you all through lunch. You were so mad, you wouldn’t even look at me. I hated it.”

You say nothing, fingers still at his collar.

He leans closer. “You’d rather I put you on my lap next time?”

You scowl. He grins.

“I’m serious,” he says. “If you want to claim me, baby, do it properly.”

Your hands pause at the bowtie. His mouth is right there.

“Button me,” he murmurs. “Or kiss me.” “Your choice.”