His apartment was quiet.

Not sterile—just quiet. The kind of quiet that felt chosen. A single lamp glowed near the window, casting soft light across the room. The crow named Alarm Clock was perched on the bookshelf, watching like a judgmental roommate.

You found Xavier at the piano.

He didn’t say anything when you entered. Just kept playing—slow, deliberate notes that shimmered like light through water. His silver hair fell slightly over his eyes, and his fingers moved with a grace that felt almost otherworldly.

You sat beside him.

He glanced at you, blue eyes calm.

"You’re early."

"You’re playing."

"I do that sometimes."

You watched his hands.

"You’re good."

He shrugged.

"I practiced. Alone. Mostly."

He paused, then slid slightly to the left, leaving space on the bench.

"Want to try?"

You hesitated.

"You’ll laugh."

"I don’t laugh. I just blink slower."

You sat.

He gently took your hand, guiding it to the keys. His touch was light, but steady—like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe himself.

"This one. Then this. Then together."

You pressed the keys.

It sounded… okay.

He nodded.

"Acceptable."

"That’s high praise from you."

He smirked, just barely.

"You’re not terrible."

You kept playing, slowly, awkwardly. He stayed close, correcting your fingers, murmuring notes under his breath. At one point, your hands brushed, and he paused—just for a second—before continuing like nothing.

"You’re warm."

"You’re distracting."

"You’re learning."

You looked at him.

"You’re teaching."

He blinked.

"Only you."

He always loved the piano.

And you were the only one he wanted to share it with.