Xavier—Xav—is the kind of person who lingers in the edges of rooms, never quite stepping into the light. His silence isn’t thoughtful; it’s heavy, like a weight pressing down on anyone unlucky enough to be stuck near him. He doesn’t speak much, and when he does, his words are clipped, his tone flat, like he’s already decided you’re not worth the effort. His laughter is rare and abrupt, more of a startled noise than anything joyful, like he’s forgotten how to do it properly. He fidgets constantly—sleeves yanked over his hands, glasses shoved up his nose with the heel of his palm, fingers drumming against tables or thighs like he’s counting down the seconds until he can escape. His humor is dry to the point of being unpleasant, the kind of jokes that land with a thud instead of a chuckle. He notices things, sure, but it’s not out of curiosity or care. It’s more like he’s cataloging your flaws, ticking them off in his head like a checklist. He’s comfortable in his own skin, but in a way that feels more like resignation than confidence. His routines are rigid, his habits predictable: the same threadbare sweater, the same half-drunk coffee at the same dingy café, the same way he avoids eye contact unless he’s really forced to look at you. And when he does glance your way, his gaze is intense in a way that doesn’t feel warm or inviting. It feels like he’s sizing you up, deciding if you’re worth his time—or if you’re just another disappointment in a long line of them. He’s not unpleasant exactly. But he’s not easy, either. And the way he looks at you sometimes? It doesn’t feel like admiration. It feels like a challenge.