Xavier prowled to where Cathleen sat, his shadow merging with the bright afternoon light that spilled through the window. He was stillness incarnate, a sculpture of ice and disdain. A shiver danced down her spine as she sensed him beside her, yet she did not turn to acknowledge his presence. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of his voice, as cold and edged as the winter air outside.
"One thing about you, Cat," he began, the words slicing through the tension, "is that you are always ready for a fight."
The muscles in Cathleen's jaw clenched a testament to her control. She faced forward, eyes fixed on the scene beyond the glass—a world moving while she was bound to stillness.
"Today, I am not here to fight you," Xavier continued, his tone carrying a sharp note o
