Page 9 of Playing with Fire

Xavier'sroomwasfamiliar.I knew every band poster, every carefully organized newspaper clipping, every peculiar system he used to sort his life into controllable pieces. The three monitors on his desk cast their usual blue glow across the controlled chaos that was pure Xavier. Even his bed looked exactly as it always did, the black sheets pulled military tight because god forbid Xavier Laskin let anything exist in a state of disorder.

But tonight, everything felt different. The smell of smoke clung to my clothes and hair, a constant reminder that I'd nearly died. My chest was tight, each breath a struggle against invisible smoke.

God, help me breathe. The prayer rose unbidden, a childhood reflex I couldn't quite shake despite years away from the church. How many times had I muttered those words during panic attacks in the confession booth? Too many. Not enough. Maybe both.

"Shower," Xavier said, already pulling clothes from his dresser. "You reek of amateur arson."

I tried to smile at our usual banter, but my hands trembled, betraying me. The tiny circuits in my brain that kept me functioning in crisis, that helped me code through sleepless nights while creating combat simulations in the safety of my Army office, were shorting out. System failure imminent. "Pretty sure all arson smells the same."

"Not to me." His voice dropped into that dangerous register that made my skin prickle. "This was crude. Uncontrolled. The work of someone who doesn't understand fire's beauty."

The way he talked about flames like they were sentient, like they had purpose, should have terrified me. Instead, it created the same flutter in my stomach as watching him code, fingers flying across keys, breaking through firewalls like they were tissue paper. His technical competence was its own kind of flame. Dangerous. Beautiful. Pecaminoso. Sinful.

I looked down at my soot-stained Star Wars shirt. The one I'd worn a hundred times while coding on his floor, the fabric now reeking of destruction. "I lost everything," I whispered, reality finally sinking its teeth into me. "My figures. My photos. All my projects. Everything's just... gone."

"We'll get you new things," he said, his voice softer than I expected.

"You can't replace memories." My voice cracked open like burning wood. "The photo of my unit. My dad's dog tags. My rare first edition Sailor Mercury. They're all..." The words choked me. "Oh god, they're all gone."

Suddenly Xavier stood before me, his hands anchoring my shoulders to reality. His fingers tightened, then loosened, as if he was unsure about the right amount of pressure. "Breathe, Leo. Just breathe." There was a note in his voice I'd never heard before. Not just command, but concern.

I tried, but the air felt thick. Wrong. Like back in the trailer when the smoke was filling my lungs, when everything was burning, when I couldn't find the way out. My chest constricted painfully, lungs refusing to expand. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. The world started tilting, the sounds becoming distant and muffled. I couldn't feel my fingers anymore, couldn't feel the floor beneath my feet.

"I can't... I can't..." The words came out in desperate gasps. I was drowning in air, in memories, in terror. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs, a drum beating out the rhythm of primal fear.

"Leo." Xavier sounded worried. I didn’t want him to worry, especially not about me. Dammit, I was being such a burden, and when he was being so…Him.

His hands framed my face, fingers trembling slightly against my skin. "Focus on me. You're safe."

But I couldn't find him in the darkness that was closing in. My legs started to buckle, the room spinning like a corrupted video file, reality glitching around me. I was back in the fire, smoke filling my lungs, heat pressing against my skin, nowhere to run. Death reaching for me with burning fingers.

"Breathe with me," he urged, pressing his forehead to mine, his own breathing deliberately slow and deep. When that didn't work, his expression shifted to something I'd never seen before. Uncertainty.

"I don't know how to fix this," he whispered, almost to himself, a rare admission that something had slipped beyond his control. His eyes searched mine.

Then something changed in his expression. His hands tightened on my face, and for a moment, he hesitated.

Then his lips crashed against mine, rough and demanding. Not a gentle first kiss but a claiming, his teeth grazing my lower lip with just enough pressure to shock me. He kissed like he owned me, like he had every right to take what he wanted. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling just hard enough to hurt, forcing my head back to give him better access.

When I gasped, he took advantage, his tongue sliding against mine in a deliberate invasion. The kiss tasted like smoke and control, like Xavier had distilled his essence into this one brutal act of possession. It wasn't tender or sweet. It was calculated dominance, a predator's understanding of weakness exploited to perfection.

And it worked. My systems froze, then rebooted, all processes redirecting to this new overwhelming input. His kiss hijacked my brain, forcing a total shutdown of the panic sequence. My body responded instantly, nerve endings lighting up like a Christmas tree, blood rushing south so fast it made me dizzy. The world snapped back into focus, oxygen suddenly flowing into my lungs as I gasped against his mouth.

I knew, even as I melted against him, that this was manipulation. Xavier knew exactly how I felt about him. Had known for months, probably from the moment I first started looking at him too long, laughing too eagerly at his jokes. He'd identified my weakness and was now exploiting it with a hard system override.

But knowing didn't stop me from responding. From pressing closer, from making a small, desperate sound against his mouth that would haunt me later. My hands clutched at his shirt, holding on for dear life as his kiss dismantled every firewall I'd ever built.

When he pulled back, I caught a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he hadn't fully intended to cross that line. The calculated mask slipped back into place almost immediately, but not before I glimpsed something vulnerable beneath it.

"Better?" he asked, voice slightly unsteady despite his effort to sound casual.

I nodded, unable to form words. My heart still raced, but from something entirely different now. I could breathe again. Could think again. But I couldn't process what had just happened. Xavier had kissed me. Xavier, who didn't want anyone sexually, had just kissed me like he wanted to consume me whole.

"Good." His thumb brushed over my lower lip where his teeth had been moments before. "You were having an anxiety attack. Needed to break the cycle." The clinical explanation didn't quite match the lingering softness in his eyes or the way his hand still cupped my face, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to let go.

"You... you kissed me." The words came out raw, shell-shocked. I couldn't reconcile what had just happened with two years of careful boundaries and friendly distance.

Something flickered across his face—not quite discomfort, but definitely uncertainty. "It worked, didn't it?" He shrugged, the casual gesture betrayed by the tension in his shoulders. "Panic attacks are just feedback loops. I made an executive decision to interrupt yours."

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