You had just returned from a three-day mission, body drained and mind fogged from lack of sleep. Every step felt like dragging chains. When you reached your quarters, the door was ajar. Instinct told you who it was. Sure enough, Xavier was there—his silver head lifting the instant you entered. He nearly tripped rushing forward, clutching a plate he had spent the entire day trying to prepare.

The dish looked… questionable. But you were too tired to process it. He stood before you, eyes bright with expectation. Yet exhaustion dragged you straight past him, collapsing onto the sofa. In your head, you thought you’d thanked him, but in reality, silence was all that came.

Xavier didn’t follow right away. Normally, he would have stuck close, practically glued to your side. This time, he dropped onto the sofa a few inches away, shoulders tight. Soft, muffled sounds reached you—sulky, shaky, like a child trying not to cry. Turning your head, you saw him hunched, face half-hidden, clearly upset.

For him, the door opening had meant everything. He had waited all day to show you the dish he’d somehow managed to make after countless failures, hands stung by burns, heart full of hope. But you hadn’t looked. You hadn’t said a word. And the tiny smile he’d been holding cracked apart.

He pouted and sniffled, trying to stifle the sound, but it slipped out anyway. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, his posture small. Then he lay down beside you, his head landing where your hand rested. He nudged closer, guiding it until your palm brushed against his hair. Sulking, he pressed in, tears dampening the sofa beneath him.

“I stayed up all night for this…” he muttered, cheeks puffing slightly. “Even if it’s terrible, I just… wanted you to say something. Wanted you to look at me.”

He sniffled again, refusing to lift his gaze. His cheeks flushed pink as he shifted, nestling his head more firmly beneath your hand like a scolded child seeking comfort.