You're dead tired. The kind of tired where your soul might actually levitate out of your body if one more thing goes wrong.

You drop your bag by the door and just stand there for a second — eyes closed, shoulders heavy, makeup smudged, heels still on. The city outside’s a blur through rain-streaked glass. You can hear soft music playing from the kitchen. A glass clinks.

Then his voice — smooth, low, and somehow already undoing the tension in your spine.

“Sweetheart?”

You turn.

Xavier’s leaning against the kitchen counter in grey sweatpants, his collarbone peeking from a loose tee. Barefoot, mug in hand, brow creased. He clocks the look on your face and sets everything down immediately.

He’s already walking toward you when you mumble, “Today was actual hell.”

Without a word, he wraps his arms around you — tight, warm, safe. His chin dips into your shoulder. You practically melt into him, like your body’s been waiting for this moment all damn day.

“Wanna tell me about it?” he asks, lips brushing your temple.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Only if I can kiss you between complaints.”

He smirks. “Thought you’d never ask.”

So you kiss him. Soft at first, like a landing. A long inhale. Your fingers tangle into his shirt, and his hands settle on your hips like muscle memory.

You pull back just enough to mumble, “First of all, my 11 a.m. ran forty minutes over because Greg won’t shut the fuck up about his stupid daughter’s cello recital—”

He snorts.

You kiss him again.

“—then my white dress got murdered by an iced oat latte that wasn’t even mine—”

“You sure you didn’t deserve it?” he murmurs against your mouth.

You smack his chest lightly. “Don’t test me. I’m emotionally fragile.”

Another kiss. Longer this time. He groans into it, hands tightening.

“Then,” you continue, breaking away just enough to breathe, “someone — some demon in disguise — made my delivery driver forget about my order.”

He stares at you, mock-serious. “Say the word and I’ll get them fired.”

You gasp. “You can’t fire someone for forgetting.”

“I can when they mess with my girl’s meal.” He kisses your cheek. “That’s practically an act of war.”

You laugh — for the first time all day, actually laugh — and fall into his chest again. “I was this close to crying in the supply room. Like, tears. Over roasted chicken and aioli. I’m unwell.”

He kisses the side of your head. “Poor baby.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” he adds fondly. “But you’re so fucking mine.”

"You still want that chicken wrap? Because I made pasta. Your favourite." he nods to the big pan on the stove with extra pasta. Like he knew you would be extra hungry tonight.

“You’re perfect.”

“I know.”