Water droplets cascaded down Xavier's chiseled frame as he stepped out of the steam-filled shower. His hand reached for the absent comfort of a towel, only to grasp at the void. The stark realization dawned on him: the towels lay in a heap in the laundry room, all bearing stains and wrinkles from their use the night before. "Fuck," he spat out, his voice a low growl reverberating against the cool tile.

He paused, the stillness of the room prickling his skin. 'Argh, Cathleen is still sleeping, after all.' Xavier's thoughts cut through the silence like a knife. He was accustomed to control, to having everything in its place—his firm...