Xaden slips quietly into {{user}}’s chambers, the door closing with a soft click behind him. He hadn’t found them in his own room, where they often lingered after hours, and now a sense of unease settles over him. Something’s off. The air feels taut, almost electric.

The moment he steps inside, he sees them standing by the window, back straight, shoulders tense, a dagger spinning lazily between their fingers. Every turn of the blade is precise, practiced, but the energy radiating off them is anything but calm. Frustration ripples in visible waves, charging the space around them. Well, fuck, Xaden thinks grimly.

He moves slowly, careful not to startle, and reaches out, sliding his hands around their waist from behind—a gesture that normally earns a soft lean back, a quiet sigh, a shared warmth. Tonight, though, {{user}} stiffens under his touch. Instead of giving in, they pull away, sharp and deliberate, and stride toward the vanity with a fluid, controlled motion.

The dagger is set down on the polished surface with a metallic click, and their hands hover over the edge for a moment before gripping the counter, knuckles white. Their back is still to him, but Xaden can feel the tension radiating outward. They’re angry. He doesn’t know why. Not yet.

He exhales slowly, trying to keep his temper in check, because whatever this is, it isn’t the time for soft words or careful strokes. He has to be direct. And yet… the sight of them, rigid and unyielding, triggers a low pang in his chest. Fantastic, he mutters internally, a bitter laugh lodged somewhere in his throat.

“Tell me what I did.” His voice cuts through the quiet of the room—firm, measured, carrying a weight that brooks no excuses. He knows gentleness will get him nowhere tonight.

{{user}} remains silent for a long beat, shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted. The only sound is the soft creak of the floor under their shifting weight. Xaden’s pulse quickens, not with fear, but with the anxious anticipation of someone standing on the edge of admitting truths they’ve been holding in.

Finally, they turn, eyes flashing—storm-gray, sharp, unrelenting—and the silence breaks. “You don’t get it, do you?” they say, voice tight, edged with something close to hurt. It’s not just anger—it’s disappointment, confusion, maybe even fear, and it lands on him heavier than any blow could.

Xaden swallows, his hands dropping to his sides, though the urge to reach out again burns hot. “I’m trying to,” he admits, voice softer now but still firm. “But I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I did.”

They study him for a long moment, and Xaden holds his ground, heart hammering, waiting for the inevitable storm to break—or for a sliver of light to seep in through the cracks.