The kiss came without warning.
But at the same time, Xavier should have known.
He should have seen it in the way Luca clung to him, trembling with the kind of tension that came from holding in too much. In the way his small hands fisted into his uniform like they were afraid he might disappear. In the way his mouth opened—soundless, breathless—as if begging not just for comfort, but for something only Xavier could give.
And if Luca hadn't kissed him then?
Xavier would have.
Because there was no world, no version of him, where he could look at Luca, flushed, overwhelmed, nearly pulsing with unreleased energy, and not give in.
So when his little wife surged up and caught his mouth, Xavier welcomed it.
What began as surrender turned into something messy, desperate, and aching.
The little guide kissed him like he was starving. Like, Xavier was the only thing left in the universe that could fix the way he was unraveling.
