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𓆩♡𓆪Xavier

Xavier definitely does not know what he's doing when it comes to your hair — he barely knows anything about his own hair, he just wakes up looking perfect somehow. So when you ask him to help with your braids, he's absolutely clueless, but so eager to learn.

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, sunlight slanting in through the blinds and striping the carpet gold. Your hair is freshly washed, blow-dried, and moisturized. Your bedroom floor is scattered with everything you'll need — a rat-tail comb, a tub of edge control, packets of braiding hair still in their plastic. Xavier sits cross-legged behind you on a cushion, looking at the setup like it's a puzzle with no instructions.

"Xav, can you part my hair pretty, please?" you ask, voice all whiny and pleading.

Of course he was going to say yes — not with your face looking that cute, chubby cheeks and all. He just had no idea what he was signing up for.

"Xav, you need to part my hair ear to ear, okay baby?" you say, settling between his thighs, your back warm against his chest.

"Okay, my star, I'll try," he says, gripping the rat-tail comb like it might bite him. He presses the tip carefully to your scalp, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and drags it slow and shaky in a line from one ear to the other, stopping every few centimeters to check he hasn't gone crooked.

You double-check the part with your fingers, tracing the clean line through your scalp. It's perfect.

"XAV. THIS IS PERFECT," you say, jumping up and hugging him tightly. He melts into it instantly.

"Did I really do that good?" he asks, still half-suffocated by your grip.

"Yes baby, it's perfect, how are you so good at this?" you say, reassuring him.

"I was just being precise. Like I'm cutting a Wanderer in half — except it was your hair," he says.

You stare at him blankly before bursting into laughter, smacking him lightly. He starts laughing too. God, your boyfriend is so silly.

After that, Xavier helps by handing you extension hair for your braids, unwrapping each packet and combing through the ends so they're smooth before passing them over, even attempting a knotless braid himself — fingers fumbling with the feed-in technique, hair slipping loose twice before he gets a section to actually hold. It isn't perfect, the tension a little too loose near the root, but at least he tried.

Once your hair's done —  braids trailing past your shoulders, ends dipped in warm water to seal them — all he can do is admire you, fingers slowly raking through the braids, testing the weight of them in his palm.

"You're so beautiful, my star," he says, still admiring your shared handiwork.

"Next time, can I properly do your hair, my star?"

"Of course, Xav," you say, smothering him in kisses.

After that, you tie your satin bonnet on, the room dimming as the sun finally dips below the windowsill, and you both cuddle up in bed, drifting off to sleep together.

--

𓆩♡𓆪Zayne

Zayne actually has some knowledge when it comes to your hair texture, because to him, wash days are also his days — a chance to slow down and spend real time together. Taking care of your hair is genuinely one of his favorite things to do with you.

It's a Saturday morning, soft grey light filtering through sheer curtains, the whole apartment quiet except for the low hum of the coffee maker. Zayne has no work today. You told him the night before that you were planning to wash your hair and do a twist-out, and he offered to help before you'd even finished the sentence.

After breakfast — eggs he insisted on making, plated far too neatly for a Saturday — you sit between his thighs on a folded towel in the bathroom, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, a row of bottles lined up on the counter like he's prepping for a procedure: pre-shampoo oil, a wide-tooth comb, a spray bottle of water. He sections your hair into four and starts at the very ends, gently parting it, careful not to hurt you, working the pre-shampoo through strand by strand to slowly detangle it before any water touches it at all.

"Does that hurt, my love?" he asks softly, brushing out the knots with slow, deliberate strokes, always combing from tip to root so he never rips through a tangle. You shake your head no, and he keeps going.

During wash day, Zayne loves showing off his random hair facts, and you think it's so cute when he does.

"Did you know red hair is the rarest hair color? Only about 1% of people have it," he says, still gently detangling.

You laugh lightly at the random fact.

"Also — did you know each hair follicle contains enough genetic material to clone an entire human being?" he says, dropping another fact.

"Really?" you say, skeptical.

He goes on to explain exactly how, and you find yourself smiling as he rambles on, his voice a low, even murmur against the quiet of the bathroom.

For the actual wash, since he wants you to feel completely relaxed, he runs a nice bubble bath, water tinted faintly amber from your favorite bath oil, your favorite candle lit on the edge of the tub throwing soft flickering light against the tile, something soft and instrumental playing low from his phone propped against the mirror.

You sink into the warm water, foam brushing your collarbones. Zayne rolls up his sleeves further, ready to rinse the pre-shampoo out. While you're in the bath, he even gives you a light massage first — thumbs working slow circles into your shoulders, down along your spine — before he even touches the showerhead. It's quiet, just the sound of his classical playlist, soft piano threaded with violin, and the two of you finally catching up on the week you'd barely seen each other through.

Then he grabs the showerhead, tests the water against his wrist twice before getting the temperature just right, and washes your hair thoroughly, giving you the best scalp massage of your life — the kind that has your eyes fluttering shut and your shoulders dropping every bit of tension they were holding. He works the shampoo through slow and deliberate, fingers massaging in small circles from your hairline to the nape of your neck, then the conditioner after, detangling one more time with his fingers before he even reaches for the comb. Once he's rinsed everything out, he wraps your hair up in a microfiber towel, twists it into a little turban on top of your head, and helps you out of the bath, wrapping you in a towel like you're something precious.

"There," he says, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. "All clean."

The actual styling he leaves to you — he's smart enough to know twist-outs aren't his area of expertise — while he heads to the kitchen to start dinner. But he doesn't fully disappear. Every twenty minutes or so, he wanders back in, leaning against the doorframe with a dish towel still slung over his shoulder, the smell of something simmering drifting in behind him.

"How's it coming along?" he asks the first time, watching you rake leave-in cream through a section, then twist it tight from root to tip.

"Good. Slow, but good," you say, twisting a section around your finger, smoothing the flyaways down with a little oil on your fingertip.

The second time he checks in, he's got flour on his sleeve and the faint smell of garlic trailing in behind him. He doesn't say anything, just leans in the doorway and watches you finish off a twist, quietly fascinated by the process the same way he's fascinated by everything you do.

"You're staring," you say, not even looking up.

"I like watching you," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, before disappearing back to the stove.

By the time your twist-out is fully done — hair wrapped up safely in ur pink bonnet, catching the last of the evening light through the kitchen window — dinner's ready too, plated and waiting, a candle already lit on the table. He pulls your chair out for you, tucks a stray curl behind your ear before you even sit down.

"Worth the wait?" you tease, gesturing at your hair.

"Everything about today was worth it," he says, and he means it — the quiet morning, the facts you humored him on, the hour with his hands in your hair. To Zayne, none of it was a chore. It was just another way of being close to you.

--

𓆩♡𓆪 Rafayel

Rafayel has definitely noticed how long you take on your hair. He loves that you take pride in it, but he also just wants to whisk his girl out to dinner already.

"Cutie, do you know what time it is?" he whines, wandering toward the bedroom, already dressed sharp for the reservation, cologne trailing after him.

"Baby, I'm just doing my hair, I'll be out in a second," you say, hunched over the bathroom mirror, still slicking it back into a ponytail with a brush in one hand and sticky edge control on the other hand.

"You're taking forever, cutie, we're going to miss the reservation."

"Since when does Rafayel care about reservations?" you shoot back, rolling your eyes, not even looking up.

"Since now — I just want to eat with my beautiful girl," he whines.

"How hard can doing hair really be? It shouldn't take this long," he says.

"Well, it is hard. Why don't you try doing my hair and see for yourself?" you say, sassy.

"Bet," he says, smug. "I could probably do it better than you."

You don't think much of it — you're sure he'll never actually follow through. But Rafayel is now a man on a mission: prove you wrong, and do it faster than you ever could.

Weeks later, he asks if he can do your hair. You agree, reluctantly, half-regretting ever provoking him — but he's determined, and you can't say no to that.

By now it's been a month of secret practice — late nights on his phone, a Pinterest board titled cutie's hair with dozens of saved pins, a spare mannequin head he'd bought and hidden in his studio closet, gel and rat-tail combs sitting among his paint supplies like they belonged there. Your hair was his canvas and his hands the paint, and he was ready.

He'd called Thomas the day before, asking for the best of the best — human hair with the perfect body-wave curl, hair gel, a proper hooded dryer, everything. You were stunned he even knew what a body wave was.

Your hair's already washed and blow-dried beforehand, so there's not much prep needed. His studio's been rearranged for the occasion — easel pushed to the side, a proper salon chair he'd somehow sourced set up under the best light in the room, a rolling cart beside it lined with combs, clips, and product in a neat row like surgical tools.

"Welcome to my salon, cutie. It's called Slayed by Raf," he says, gesturing you toward the chair.

All you can do is sigh at how ridiculous he sounds. You sit and wait while he disappears to grab his supplies, the smell of gel and hairspray already faint in the air.

"Okay, Slayed by Raf — make sure you actually slay my hair, and not slaughter it," you say, sarcastic.

"Oh, cutie, I was made for this."

"So what style do you want?" he asks, fully committing to the hairstylist bit, tying a small cape around your shoulders for dramatic effect.

"I have zero expectations, so do whatever you want, Raf."

So he does. He parts your hair with total precision, comb gliding in clean, even lines, dabbing gel along your edges with a toothbrush and smoothing it flat before cleanly cornrowing the front, each row so tight and even it looks machine-made. He'd been torn between Fulani braids and mermaid braids with gold cuffs and beads threaded through while researching, so — bold move — he decides to do both, blending the two styles seamlessly down the length of your hair. He's locked in, focused, tongue between his teeth exactly the way he gets when he's mixing paint, because he wants his girl to look and feel her absolute best.

"I've never seen you this locked in, Raf. Not even when you're painting," you remark.

"Well, my love, beauty takes time, and I want you to look beautiful," he says, working the back of your hair, fingers weaving hair extension in seamlessly section by section.

Hours and several breaks later — snack runs, a shoulder massage he insisted on giving you halfway through, one moment where he stood back just to squint at his own work like it was a canvas — the masterpiece is finished. He dramatically hands you a mirror. "Look at my beautiful work, cutie."

You're speechless, staring at yourself in shock — the braids swept elegantly to one side, gold accessories catching the light, the front laid flatter and cleaner than any salon you'd ever paid for.

"Speechless, my love?" he says.

"Very," you say, looking up at him.

"I guess I was wrong," you admit, looking at him with puppy eyes. He leans down and gives you a quick peck.

"Raf, you're my hairstylist from now on, right?"

"Of course, cutie. Anything for my special girl."

--

𓆩♡𓆪 Sylus

Sylus doesn't really play an active role when you're doing your hair — he just watches. He'll sink into the armchair in the corner of your room, one ankle crossed over his knee, glass of wine in hand, eyes tracking every movement of your fingers like it's the most interesting thing he's seen all week.

"Sylus, you're staring."

"I know, kitten."

"Are you just going to stare?"

"Yes, kitten," he says, red eyes locked on your hands as you section and braid, the low lamp light catching the shine of your edge control.

One time, while you were doing your hair, he noticed the bottle of your favorite conditioner was nearly empty, sitting almost flat on its side on the bathroom shelf. His girl running out? Unacceptable. So he does what Sylus does — steps into the hallway and makes one phone call, voice too low for you to catch the words. You hear him on it but think nothing of it.

The following week, on wash day, the doorbell rings — three huge boxes stacked in the hallway outside your apartment door, tape still fresh, courier badge scanned twice for confirmation.

"Package for Y/N L/N," the delivery driver says, handing you a tablet to sign.

What the hell, you think, as he wheels the boxes into your apartment, one after another. Then it clicks.

Sylus.

Of course it was him — audacious enough to do exactly this. You open one box: your favourite conditioner, dozens of bottles wrapped in tissue paper like it's a boutique order, roughly a lifetime's supply. Stunned and a little annoyed, you call him.

"Sylus," you say, exasperated.

"Did you get your treat, kitten?"

"Sylus, why?"

"I can't have my favourite girl running out of her favourite conditioner," he says, smug, and you can practically hear the smirk through the phone.

"Sylus, this is a lifetime supply. Where am I supposed to put all this?"

"Just move in with me. I have the space."

"Ugh, you're so annoying," you say, hanging up — equal parts grateful and completely exasperated, wondering how you ended up with this man.

--

Sylus will absolutely buy a hair company for you, or at least threaten to, if pushed.

So one day, your favourite shampoo changes its formula, and your wash-and-go doesn't come out right — hair frizzy at the roots, curls falling flat by noon. Frustrated, you vent about it in bed that night, bonnet already on, arms crossed over your chest.

"Today's been the worst, Sylus."

"What happened, kitten?" he asks, setting his tablet aside, giving you his full attention the way he always does when your voice does that particular tired thing.

"They changed my favourite shampoo's formula, and now I'm having the worst hair day," you say, frazzled.

"But your hair looks beautiful, kitten," he says, gently smoothing a hand over your bonnet.

"Ugh, you just don't get it, Sylus," you say, frustrated, snuggling into his chest anyway.

Sylus notices you've been down about it for days — quieter at breakfast, less patient with your edges in the mirror — and he can't have his girl this distraught over shampoo. So he's on a mission. He and the twins dig into it and find out the company cut costs with cheaper, harsher ingredients to pad their margins. He's furious — his kitten does not get cheap products in her hair. So, in true Sylus fashion, he doesn't just complain about it. He buys the company outright and pours funding straight into the formulation team, personally reviewing lab notes he barely understands just to make sure it's done right.

You have no idea any of this happened — he'd just been unusually busy, though he's always busy. So on your next wash day, he sets a single, sleek new bottle on the bathroom counter without a word: the same shampoo, reformulated, improved. You're stunned by how good it feels lathering through your hair, and that's when he leans in the doorway and drops the bomb that it was all him.

"Sylus," is all you can manage.

"Surprised, kitten?"

"Yes! You didn't have to go that far."

"Anything for my favourite girl," he says, and you smother him in kisses as he chuckles.

--

𓆩♡𓆪 Caleb

Caleb is not new to this — he's true to this. Doing your hair is his bread and butter. He knows everything about your hair: braids, cornrows, silk presses; he even installed a wig on you once for prom.

Growing up, he always did his best with your hair — researching products in the school library on weekends, building the perfect routine one trial and error at a time. It was comforting, and it always made you feel loved and confident. When kids used to tease you about it, he'd chase them off, shouting that he did your hair and it was beautiful. Your hair has always been an important part of your relationship.

Now that you're older and both busy with work, he still makes time every month to do your hair, and to go through your products and shop for new ones with you.

It's a sunny July afternoon, warm light pooling across your living room floor, and Caleb's finally back in Linkkon after too long away with the fleet. You've missed him terribly — FaceTime just wasn't enough.

"Pips, I'm home!" he shouts, letting himself in with the spare key you gave him,  bag still slung over one shoulder.

Silence. Too quiet. He starts to panic, thinking the worst, dropping his bag by the door and frantically searching for you room to room. Meanwhile, you're just quietly struggling in the bathroom, arms aching, halfway through taking out your old braids, hair scattered across the counter.

"Ugh, I wish Caleb were here," you sigh — right as the bathroom door bursts open, Caleb panting, visibly frightened.

"Are you okay?" he says, catching his breath as his heart rate settles, seeing you're fine, just stuck, comb hanging limp in your tired hand.

"Need help, Pips?" he says, sliding off his jacket and hanging it on your door.

"Please, Caleb, my arms hurt," you pout.

"Sit down, my love," he says, gesturing to your desk chair, already rolling his sleeves up before you've even sat.

You sit as he grabs the comb off your bed and gets to work, starting at your nape, unravelling each braid with quick, practised fingers, careful never to tug too hard at the root.

"Caleb, I missed you. And this," you say, looking up at him lovingly.

"Missed you too, Pips," he says, kissing your forehead before going back to the braids.

You two talk and reminisce as he finishes taking them out, the pile of loosened hair growing in your lap, afternoon light shifting slowly across the wall as the hours pass.

"You need a trim, Pips, your ends feel really dry," he says, rubbing a strand between his fingers to check.

"I know, baby, I've been busy." Caleb knows your hair best, so he gets to work after a thorough wash — clarifying shampoo first to strip the buildup, then a deep conditioner he leaves under a plastic cap while you both eat lunch. You take a break to eat, then it's back to styling — simple cornrows this time, since you'll mostly be wearing a wig. You settle back into the chair as he trims your ends with quick, even snips, sections your hair into clean neat rows with the tail of his comb, and braids it down close to the scalp, each row perfectly straight. When he's done, he finishes with a splash of oil that makes your scalp shine under the lamp light, and ties your bonnet on for you.

"Thanks, Caleb. It means a lot."

"Anything for you, Pips."

--

𓆩♡𓆪 Valko

Valko, like Caleb, isn't new to this either. Growing up in the pack, he helped style his younger cousins' hair a lot, so even though he doesn't know much about your texture specifically, he's eager to learn. He's also a massive nerd about it — genuinely curious, tail wagging the whole time, asking "what does this do" and "what's this for" about every product, determined to learn your entire routine inside and out, occasionally jotting notes on a little pad he keeps in his back pocket.

Lately, you've been frustrated with your hair — after taking your braids out, it's dry and breaking, snapping off in short pieces at your crown even though you're using everything that's always worked before. Right after washing it, hair still damp and sectioned under clips, you vent your frustration out loud.

"Ugh, why is it still so dry?" you say, running your fingers through a strand and wincing as a few break off in your hand. Valko hears you and comes over.

"Everything okay, pup?" he asks, wrapping his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder.

"No, babe, my hair's just so dry, and I don't know what to do," you sigh. "I don't know if it's the formula or what."

"Let me look," Valko says, taking the bottle from the bathroom shelf to read the ingredients, eyes scanning the label the way he'd read a lab report.

"There's a lot of chemicals in here that can dry hair out — if the formula changed, these are more chelating than moisturising, that's probably why it's drying out," he explains, tapping a claw against a line on the back of the bottle.

"Give me two or three months. I'll make you something even better," he says, kissing your cheek.

Four months pass, and you don't hear much from him about it — you've just switched products in the meantime, and your hair's been recovering. Meanwhile, Valko's been locked away in his lab most evenings, beakers and small sample jars lined up across his desk, testing formulas late into the night, determined to make the best shampoo possible. Finally, he comes to you with the finished product — a small unlabeled bottle, hand-lettered tag tied around the neck that just says for you.

"Here — the best moisturising shampoo you'll ever use, made by your own special wolf," he says, more than a little proud of himself, practically vibrating as he waits for you to try it.

"I thought you forgot."

"How could I? It just took longer than I expected — I wanted it to be perfect for you."

That night you finally test it out, lathering it through freshly wet hair while Valko hovers just outside the shower curtain, asking every thirty seconds how it feels. By the time you towel-dry, your hair already feels different — softer, heavier somehow, not that straw-like dryness from before. You run your fingers through it in the mirror, genuinely stunned.

"Valko. It actually worked."

"Of course it worked; I tested it forty-seven times," he says, tail wagging so hard it nearly knocks a bottle off the counter.

"Thanks, Valko. I really appreciate it, my cute nerd."

"Only for the best girl."

"Perimeter's clear," he said, quiet, like nothing in the world could rattle him. He crossed the debris toward you, boots crunching over glass and rubble. "You're bleeding, though."

You looked down. A chunk of crystal debris had opened a gash along your calf and you hadn't even noticed.

"Huh. Didn't feel that happen."

"Let me look at it." He dropped to one knee, taking a bandage roll out of your hands before you'd even fully pulled it from your pouch.

His hands were warm. Warmer than it made sense, given the cold. When he folded the torn fabric of your pants back to get at the wound, his fingers grazed bare skin and something jumped straight up your spine. You bit down on the inside of your cheek so you wouldn't make a sound about it.

This was the problem with Xavier. Some days he fell asleep against your shoulder like it was the safest place in the world. Other days he kept a careful distance between you and answered everything in a polite, unreadable tone, and you were left wondering if you'd imagined the whole thing.

"Does that hurt?" his thumb pressed against the unbroken skin just above it — the touch was not necessary to wrap the bandage.

"A little," you said, watching the top of his head, how the moonlight caught the color of his hair. "Xavier. Can I ask you something?"

His hands didn't stop moving, but his shoulders went still. "Yeah."

"Why do you do this?" You asked flatly, too tired to dress it up. "Sometimes I think we’re... I don't know, really close. And then other times, you look at me like I'm just another Hunter from the Association. It's confusing."

He finished tying off the gauze, stood up and finally looked at you "I just think about things. More than I probably should."

He reached out to help you up, hands closing firm around your forearms.

"Think about what?"

You went to test your weight on the bandaged leg and the ground chose that second to be uneven. You pitched forward, right into him, your chest hitting his. His hands slid from your arms to your waist to catch you.

Neither of you moved.

You could feel his heart going fast under his uniform, which didn't match the calm on his face at all. His eyes dropped to your mouth, came back up.This is happening, you thought, a little dizzy with it. He's actually going to—.

His grip on your waist tightened. Something cracked open behind his eyes, just for a second "You shouldn't stand this close to me"

"Xavier—"

He stepped back before you could get anything else out.

Crunch. Something snapped under his boot.

A white protocore.

He picked it and it suddenly went off with light, a white light expanding outward faster than you could track. The air got sucked straight out of your lungs. Your ears popped hard enough to hurt, and then the ruins, the sky, and everything else was sucked into a roar of wind that yanked you forward like the world had grabbed you by the throat.

You hit something solid and warm.

"Oof — sorry —"

A grunt came from underneath you. You blinked against sudden dark, hands slapping down flat against Xavier's chest. You were sprawled on top of him, legs tangled, face mashed against his neck.

"Oh my god." You scrambled back so fast you scraped your palms on the floor. "Sorry — are you okay?"

Xavier sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, hair falling into his eyes. "Fine. Are you hurt?"

"No, I— " You stopped. Looked around. "Wait."

You weren't standing in the ruins anymore. You were standing on a balcony with black wrought iron railing and a view of city streets that looked oddly familiar.

"Is this our building?" You turned in a slow circle, "Xavier, did you just teleport us home?"

"I didn't teleport us anywhere."

"You definitely did something..."

"I didn't" He was already moving past you toward the railing, scanning it like it might answer a question you hadn't asked yet.

"Okay, well, something got us here," you said, following him. "So if it wasn't you, what was it?"

He didn't answer right away. He crouched by one of the plants, fingers brushing the soil. Damp. Recently turned. "I don't have an explanation for this."

"When did you get so many plants?."

He moved to a small table near, where two mugs sat, both used, one rimmed faintly with lipstick.

"This is kind of freaking me out."

You spotted a newspaper folded beside the mugs and reached for it before he could stop you.

The date on the header didn't make sense. You read it twice.

"Xavier." You held it out to him, throat tight.

He took it, scanning it fast, and for the first time all night something like real alarm broke through his usual calm. "This is two years out."

"Two years." You said it slow, testing the weight of it. "Okay. We're just —somewhere else. Somewhere with your exact view, which is a really specific coincidence, but fine, sure, this is wrong, so so wrong—"

"Calm down."

"Xavier."

"What."

You pointed, wordless, toward the far corner of the balcony, where a lumpy, badly painted bird feeder hung crooked from its hook, one wing chipped clean off. You'd have known it anywhere.

"That's Fatso"s" you said.

Xavier followed your finger, and whatever he'd been telling himself died on his face.

You grabbed for your communicator on reflex. Dead screen. "No signal," you said, more to yourself than to him.

"Mine's the same. Clock's not even holding steady." He pocketed the device "We need to see what's inside. If someone's living here, we ask them what year it is."

"Oh yeah because that is a completely normal question to walk in and ask a stranger."

"Stay behind me," he reached for the handle on the sliding glass door, testing the weight of it without committing to opening it yet. Behind the curtain, something moved.

You froze. Your fingers found the sleeve of his uniform and held on.

A hand pressed flat against the glass from the other side of the curtain, fingers spread.

Xavier looked ready to run.

A second hand appeared beside it. Bigger. Scarred across the knuckles. Something in your chest went cold with recognition even before your brain caught up. The second hand moved to close over the first, fingers lacing through.

There were two people on the other side of that door. And from the way the curtain was moving, they were not just standing there.

"Xavier," you whispered, barely any air behind it at all.

He didn't answer. He didn't move his hand off the door either —just stood there frozen, staring at those hands through the glass like his whole nervous system had collapsed.

Then he moved. His hand closed around your shoulder and pulled, one smooth backward motion that tucked you both into a narrow space where the balcony wall met the building's outer brick. The spot was tight —barely enough room for two people to stand without touching —and the angle it gave you was merciless. The glass door sat directly in your line of sight, lit from inside.

You should have looked away immediately.

But you didn't.

The curtains moved a bit. Two bodies, pressed close. The woman's face was hidden, her head tipped back behind the line of the man's shoulder. His face was visible. Hair catching the light. That jaw.

Xavier

The anger came fast and hot and settled behind your sternum like coal. Months of warmth and then distance. Months of patience that felt like it was always just about to become something and never did —and here was the answer to all of it, pressed against a glass door in an apartment that was still his, two years from now, with someone else.

He was kissing her the way someone kisses when they've stopped being careful about it. Deep, his hands dragging her back against him, the movements of his lower body slow and unmistakable.

You looked away. Focused on a crack running through the middle of the wall beside you. Breathed through your nose.

Beside you, Xavier was still looking. His face was flushed.

"Is that—" His voice came out wrong.

"Yup," you said. The bitterness in it sharper than you'd intended. "That's you"

A sound came through the glass.

The impact of skin against the glass door followed immediately by a broken moan, the sound dragged your eyes back to the glass door against your will.

The curtain had been pulled aside all the way.

The view was now unobstructed.

The woman was pressed flat against the glass, her bare breasts against the cold pane, her hands finding the frame for something to hold onto. Her face was fully visible now.

The anger in your chest went out like a light.

It was your face.

Your shoulders, your hands, the sound of your own voice coming through the glass in pieces, breathless and nothing like anything you'd heard from yourself before. Your future self's cheek was pressed to the glass too, eyes half closed, lips parted around sounds that weren't words.

Future Xavier's teeth found her shoulder and bit down, not gently, leaving something that would be visible tomorrow. His hand came around the front of her, sliding between her thighs to line his beautiful cock against her entrance.

Then he drove forward.

The sound she made came through the glass loud and clear and a small involuntary noise started building in your own throat.

Xavier's palm came over your mouth.

Fast. Firm. His fingers sealing the sound in before it could escape. His hand was shaking.

The glass door shook with the next impact. And the next.

Xavier had his mouth at her ear saying something you couldn't hear through the glass but could read in the way her expression changed when he said it.

Xavier made half a sound against the back of your head and he immediately swallowed the other half.

You felt it anyway. Felt the way his arm tightened across your chest, felt the unsteady rhythm of his breathing where his chest pressed into your back.

You couldn't look away from his face —the future version of the face that was currently breathing against your temple— wearing an expression you'd never seen on him before.

"Xavier," you said, against his palm. Muffled.

His arm tightened.

"Xavier." Louder this time, enough that he could feel the shape of his name against his hand.

His mouth dropped to your ear "Don't move." The words came out rough "If they see us—"

Inside the apartment, your future self pressed her palm hard against her lips.

Future Xavier's hand closed around her wrist.

He pulled it down. He held her hand at her side and kept it there, and when she turned her face toward him he was already looking at her.

He wanted to hear her.

Below you a glass door scraped open.

One floor down, a man stepped out onto his balcony. Cigarette unlit between his fingers, head tilted slightly, listening to the night.

You pressed further into the shadow.

The rhythm inside the apartment changed. Not slower. The opposite. The glass shook in its frame and the sounds coming through it stopped being something that could be mistaken for anything else, and the man one floor down stopped trying to light his cigarette.

You looked at future Xavier's face.

His eyes were angled down and to the left.

He picked up the pace.

She tried again, her hand came up toward her mouth. Future Xavier caught her wrist without looking and his mouth moved against her ear again.

Whatever it was, she stopped trying to be quiet.

You thought about what you'd just watched him do. The escalation. The man on the balcony below. The reason your future self's hand kept getting pulled back down.

Was he jealous of that stranger?

Inside, her feet left the ground. Xavier had both arms around her, her arms caught under his, breast bouncing with every thrust.

You saw it first.

An unmistakable pressure beneath the surface of her stomach. Moving with every thrust. A belly bulge.

Your mouth went dry.

She was dripping. You could see it even through the glass —the inside of her thighs slick and glistening where his movements had worked everything down, coating her skin, catching the apartment light every time he pulled back. The glass had a faint fog to it from her breath, small clouds appearing and disappearing with each exhale.

The deep flush running from her chest to her throat made something in your lower stomach pull tight.

The Xavier beside you tracked every place her body responded to him, her hardened nipples, the way her toes curled against nothing, the flutter beneath her skin that mapped exactly where he was.

Crash

A flower pot.

It hit the floor and you both stopped breathing.

Inside the apartment, silence.

Immediate and total.

Through the glass you watched future Xavier's head come up. No panic in it. No confusion. Just a slow turn toward the sound, his eyes moving through the dark until they found the spot where the two of you were standing.

He couldn't see you. The angle was wrong, the shadow too deep.

He knew someone was there anyway.

His expression went cold and your future self said something against his chest. The curtain moved slowly across the glass from inside and the light behind it went out.

You had thirty seconds. Maybe less.

Xavier crouched beside you. The Protocore looked small against his palm, throwing a faint white pulse between his fingers for just a second.

The glass door began to slide open.

The air changed, the balcony, the broken pot, the man with his unlit cigarette, all of it collapsing into white noise and rushing dark.

You hit the ground hard. Your knees met broken stone, the air was knocked out of you on impact and you spent the first few seconds just existing on the ground.

Xavier landed beside you.

You pushed yourself up to sitting. "So..."

Xavier said nothing.

"That was weird."

Still nothing.

"We were—"

"I saw it" he opened his hand and noticed the Protocore was gone "I was standing right next to you."

"So we're both aware of what we watched."

"Yes."

"And we're not going to talk about it?"

He looked at you. "Are you going to be able to not talk about it?"

"Probably not."

He made a sound that wasn't quite a sigh, stood up and offered you a hand. You took it and he pulled you to your feet and didn't immediately let go.

"That man on the balcony," you said.

Xavier's jaw moved. "What about him."

"Future you saw him and then—"

"I know what he did." He dropped your hand. Turned to look at anything that wasn't your face. "You don't need to walk me through it."

"I'm just—" You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to smile, it felt inappropriate and also completely unavoidable "Was he showing off?"

"We're not talking about that."

"Xavier—"

"Not yet." He said it quietly. Just a line in the ground, clearly drawn. "Not tonight. There's—" He exhaled. "There's a lot I need to sit with before I talk about any of it."

You nodded. That felt fair.

You started walking, picking your way back through the rubble toward the gap in the wall where you'd come in, and Xavier fell into step beside you like he always did —slightly behind, slightly to your left, a position that meant he could see everything around you before you could.

The walk back was quiet. You were almost at the gap in the wall when he spoke.

"Can I ask you something."

"Go ahead."

He was quiet for a beat. Just long enough that you glanced over at him.

"Future me?" he said. "Or me?"

You stopped walking. "What?"

"You heard me. Who do you like more?

"Xavier, that's not—you are the same person—"

"Future me is two years ahead and has information I don't have and he was doing—" a small pause, "—things to you that I have not yet done. So. Future me or me?"

You stared at him.

He stared back.

"That is the most ridiculous question you've ever asked me"

"Humor me."

"You"

Something in his face changed.

"Good," he said.

"But future you did have his—"

The not quite smile disappeared. "We're going home," he said, and turned toward the gap in the wall.

You followed him, and you were very glad he was walking ahead of you this time because the smile on your face was not something you were ready to explain.