“And your ex-girlfriend is living with us, and you need to apply some house training!” Logan challenges.
“Fine!” I declare. I hate admitting weakness which feels dangerous when we're already walking an emotional tightrope.
Xavier clears his throat, his mint scent carrying composure that means he's about to deliver a lecture. "I'm perfectly capable of maintaining appropriate boundaries with Savannah. My habits don't require modification based on her temporary presence."
Logan and I exchange a look. Xavier's habits. The man who organizes his sock drawer by color and fabric weight. The man who alphabetizes his medical journals and keeps his prescription pads arranged in geometric precision.
"Right," Logan responds dryly. "You're a model of emotional stability."
"I am," Xavier insists defensively.
"Sure you are, Doc. And I'm the Pope," I retort.
Xavier's jaw tightens, mint scent sharpening with defensive irritation. "I don't see how my organization system relates to our current domestic situation."
"Your organization system is fine," I offer diplomatically. "It's your emotional system that needs work."
"My emotional system is perfectly functional," Xavier protests.
"Is it? Because most emotionally functional people don't keep photos of their ex-girlfriends hidden in desk drawers," I challenge.
Heat crawls up Xavier's neck, embarrassment mixing with his mint and cologne until his scent becomes complicated and defensive. "That photo has sentimental value."
“Sure,” Logan scoffs, rolling his eyes.
"It does," Xavier maintains defensively.
"Sentimental value that you've looked at how many times over the past eight years?" I press.
"I don't look at it. It's just there," Xavier claims flatly.
"In your desk drawer. Where you see it every time you look for aspirin or pens or whatever other medical supplies you keep in there," Logan points out.
"The location is irrelevant," Xavier corrects.
"It's everything, Doc. You could have put that photo anywhere. Your bedroom, your office at the clinic, a box in the attic. But you put it in the one place you access multiple times per day," I conclude.
Xavier opens his mouth to argue, then closes it without saying anything. His mint scent carries defeat beneath the composure, the smell of someone who's been caught in a truth he doesn't want to acknowledge.
"I'm going to bed," he announces finally. "Some of us have early appointments tomorrow."
He disappears into his bedroom, leaving Logan and me alone in the hallway.
“He thinks he's fine," Logan observes after Xavier's door closes.
"And the most together one of us," I add.
"Which is hilarious, considering he's the one who can't throw away an eight-year-old photo," Logan notes.
I lean against Logan's shoulder, enjoying the solid warmth of him and how his smoky cedar scent settles into comfort and familiarity. "We're all disasters."
"Yeah, but at least we know we're disasters. Xavier thinks his disaster is actually sophisticated emotional management," Logan agrees.
"Think she noticed?" I wonder.
"Savannah? She notices everything. Always has," Logan confirms.
"Think she'll stay?" I ask.
