The studio was quiet, the only sound the settling of the building and the distant hum of Nevermore.

Xavier sat on the edge of the sofa, his back to you, pulling his shirt over his head. The usual tension in his shoulders was replaced by a heavy, unhurried stillness.

​When he turned back, the sharp, brooding intensity he usually carried was softened by a flush he couldn't quite hide.

He didn't look away, but he didn't quite know where to put his hands, finally settling on the edge of the cushions near your hip.

​"You okay?" he asked. His voice was lower than usual, a rough rasp that felt more intimate than anything they'd said in the dark.

He reached out, his fingers—still faintly stained with charcoal—tracing a slow line from your wrist to your palm. He wasn't teasing or making a joke; he was just looking at you with a quiet, grounded gravity.

​"Yeah," you murmured, adjusting the blanket. "Just... thinking."

​"About what?" He shifted closer, his knee brushing yours. He was being more tactile than he usually was in the daylight, his touch possessive but careful.

​"If the gargoyles saw anything they shouldn't have," you said, a small, shy smile breaking through.

​Xavier let out a short, dry laugh, the sound vibrating in his chest. He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours for a beat, his eyes closing as he took a breath.

"Let them watch. I'm not going anywhere."

​He stayed there, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles into the back of your hand, anchored by the silence and the weight of the girl who finally made his studio feel like more than just a place to hide.