The townhouse began to feel smaller by the hour.
Amaiyla noticed it first in the silence—how it pressed in, how every sound felt amplified. The clink of a glass. The hum of the fridge. Xander's footsteps moving somewhere behind her. They were orbiting each other.
Careful.
Defensive.
Irritated for reasons neither wanted to name. By the second evening, it exploded over something stupid.
"You used all the hot water," Amaiyla snapped, standing in the hallway with a towel clutched tightly around her.
"Again." Xander looked up from the couch, incredulous. "I showered for ten minutes."
"You shower like you're power-washing guilt off your conscience."
He scoffed. "Maybe if you didn't take an hour—"
"I don't take an hour!"
"You absolutely do." She stared at him, eyes blazing. "AH! You're impossible."
He stood. "You're dramatic." That did it.
"Oh, so now I'm dramatic?" she shot back. "I didn't ask to be here. I didn't ask to live with a man who treats everything like a negotiation."
"And I didn't ask to babysit someone who thinks emotions override reality," he fired back. The words hung between them—too sharp.
Amaiyla's voice dropped. "At least I feel something."
Xander went still. "I do feel something." "Pity for Connor," he said smugly. "You never had the guts to tell about this engagement."
"You think I enjoy this?" She crossed her arms, trembling.
"I think you're better at pretending you don't care." Something cracked then.
Xander turned away abruptly, grabbing a bottle from the cabinet. "I need a drink."
"Good," she muttered, grabbing one too.
"Because I'm done being polite."
They drank on opposite ends of the kitchen at first. One glass turned into two. Two into three. The fight softened into something blurrier—words spilling easier now, defenses lowering whether they wanted them to or not.
"You know what I hate about you?" Amaiyla said, slurring just slightly.
Xander raised an eyebrow. "Just one thing?"
"You look like you don't need anyone," she said. "Like nothing ever touches you."
He laughed once, bitter. "You think that's a compliment?" She shook her head.
"I think it's lonely." The room went quiet.
"You know what I hate about you?" he replied.
She braced herself. "What?"
"You see too much," he said. "And you don't even realize it."
The alcohol made everything heavier.
Louder.
Truer.
At some point, they ended up on the couch—too tired to keep standing, too stubborn to admit they were done fighting. Amaiyla rested her head back, eyes closing.
"I don't trust you," she murmured.
"Good," Xander replied. "Means you're paying attention."
Silence.
Then, softer, "But I don't think you're the enemy." He looked at her then—really looked. Her lashes resting against flushed cheeks. The exhaustion she'd been carrying for far longer than this week.
"Maybe," he said quietly. She didn't answer. Getting her to the bedroom was awkward—half-guiding, half-carrying, both of them unsteady. She kicked off her shoes. He collapsed onto the bed beside her without thinking.
Neither moved.
Then she shifted in her sleep, instinctively curling toward warmth, her hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Xander froze. For a long moment, he didn't breathe. Then—slowly—he wrapped an arm around her, careful, restrained, as if afraid she might disappear if he held too tightly. They slept like that.
No lines crossed.
No promises made.
Just two people trapped by the same cage, clinging unconsciously to the only thing that felt steady. When morning light crept in, Amaiyla stirred first. She realized where she was. Who she was with. And instead of panic—there was calm. That scared her more than anything. Xander was already awake, staring at the ceiling.
"We didn't—" she began.
"I know," he said immediately.
"Nothing happened." She nodded, relief washing through her.
"Okay." Neither of them moved. Neither of them pulled away. Outside, unseen, the clause logged its first silent success.
Proximity achieved. Emotional dependency: pending.
And somewhere far away, two fathers smiled— unaware they had just ignited something they could no longer fully control.