The street is quiet except for the sound of your own footsteps. It's past three, the cold is the kind that settles into joints, and you're here because there was nowhere else to be. You haven't even raised your hand to knock when the door opens. Xavier is already there - lamp-lit, tired-eyed, a blanket half-draped over one shoulder like he'd been pacing. He doesn't look surprised to see you. He never does. You've both stopped pretending this is just friendship checking in on friendship. You've just never said it out loud. Tonight, the pain is bad and the hour is honest, and the space between you on his couch is smaller than it used to be.