Xander was asleep on the couch, curled into the cushions with one small hand tucked under his cheek. His breathing was soft and even, a stark contrast to the tense silence that had filled the space just an hour before.

From the kitchen doorway, Kian watched. He’d been standing there for a while, one shoulder leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He was still in his work clothes—a faded grey t-shirt with a small oil stain near the hem, dark jeans, his boots left by the door. The sharp lines of his face were softened by the low light, but his green eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the living room.