Xavier stepped closer, the air between them taut. "Good. That's the point."
"Good?" she echoed, incredulous. "You enjoy it when I hate it?"
He shrugged lightly, but his eyes were fixed on her, calculating, unwavering. "I enjoy that you feel. That you react. That you care—whether you admit it or not."
Her heart skipped a beat. She flushed, instinctively crossing her arms tighter. "I don't care," she said quickly, but the words lacked conviction.
"You do," he stated, calm and certain. "You might not like it, but you do."
A long silence followed. She felt the weight of his gaze pressing into her, not threatening, not aggressive, just undeniably present. For a strange, uncomfortable reason, she felt a flicker of… something. Safety? Warmth? She shook it off, refusing to give him any satisfaction.
"Why are you even talking to me?" she finally asked, voice sharp. "You don't usually waste words."
"Because," he said slowly, "I like to remind you who's in control. Even if it's quiet. Even if it's subtle. Even if you pretend otherwise."
"I can pretend all I want," she shot back, defiance sparking. "You can't control what I feel, Xavier. Or what I think."
He stepped closer again, closing the distance, but kept his tone calm, almost conversational, despite the intensity in his eyes. "Maybe not. But I can control where you are, what you see, what you touch. And for now… that's enough."
She swallowed hard, irritation and a strange flutter of something else warring inside her. "You know, you're unbearable when you get all calm like that."
"I know," he said quietly, almost softly. "And yet, I like it when you notice."
Jemma froze, feeling a strange heat in her chest. She looked away, unwilling to give him any indication of the effect he had on her. "Stop saying things like that," she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
He didn't move, didn't reply immediately. Instead, he observed her, the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers drummed lightly against her knees, the faint tension in her shoulders. "You're harder to read than I thought," he said after a moment. "And that's… interesting."
She met his gaze then, eyes bright with stubbornness. "Interesting? That's what you call it? You're ridiculous."
"And you're… fascinating," he countered, voice almost a whisper. "You know that, right?"
Her jaw tightened, a flush creeping up her neck. She wanted to turn away, to snap at him, but a small, dangerous part of her felt drawn to him, curious despite herself. "You're infuriating," she said finally, trying to reclaim her attitude.
He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that made her stomach flutter against her will. "And yet, you keep talking to me."
"I have to survive your insanity somehow," she muttered, letting a corner of her defiance soften, just slightly.
He stepped back, giving her a fraction of space, but the tension didn't leave. "I've kept you close for a reason," he said, voice low and measured. "Because I can't risk losing you. Not again."
Her pulse quickened, the words striking deeper than he intended. She looked away, crossing her arms, pretending indifference, though her chest felt tight. "I'm not fragile, Xavier. I can handle myself."
"I know that," he said quietly. "And that's why I keep testing you. That's why I stay near. Because you're defiant. Because you challenge me. Because… I want to know everything you're capable of."
She stared at him, a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. "You're obsessed," she said, but the edge of her voice carried a strange warmth she couldn't hide.
"Maybe," he admitted, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Or maybe… I'm fascinated by the way you make me feel."
Her eyes widened, and she quickly looked down, cheeks burning. She couldn't let him see that his words had shaken her. Not entirely. Not yet.
He stepped closer again, not threatening, but unmistakably close, the heat of his presence filling the small space between them. "You'll get used to me being here," he said softly, almost a promise. "And maybe… maybe you'll even like it."
Jemma huffed, crossing her arms more tightly. "I doubt that," she muttered, though a faint, rebellious smile threatened the edges of her lips.
"You might," he said, calm, almost teasing. "And if not… I'll still be here."
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. Neither yielding, both testing the boundaries of their defiance and desire. The room hummed with tension, silent yet electric, as Jemma realized that, whether she liked it or not, Xavier's presence had become a permanent, inescapable force in her life. And, deep down, a small, dangerous part of her didn't entirely resent it.
The first few days after moving into Xavier's room were awkward, tense, and quiet. Jemma arranged her few belongings with care, keeping her distance, refusing to sit too close to him. Xavier observed her silently, mostly from the armchair across the room, letting her settle but never leaving her completely unmonitored.
"You're quiet this morning," he said after she unpacked a small stack of clothes, voice low but commanding.
"I'm busy," she replied, folding a shirt sharply and glancing at him. "Not talking to you."
He didn't react immediately. He simply let his gaze linger, calm and almost indifferent, though every inch of his body was alert. "Good," he finally said. "I like that you know your place."
Jemma froze, lips twitching into a smirk. "Your place or mine?" she countered, still defiant.
He let out a quiet, sharp laugh, almost a growl. "You'll learn," he said, his voice deceptively soft, but every syllable carried authority.
Over the next few days, she noticed small details about him: the way he would quietly watch her from across the room, how he would glance at her when she hummed while folding clothes, the faint shift of his posture when she dared to move too quickly past him. And every time, she felt that strange mix of irritation and… curiosity.
By the second week, Jemma began testing the limits of her new proximity. She would hum softly while making tea, deliberately letting the sound reach him, watching his reaction from the corner of her eye. Xavier would raise a brow, sometimes leaning slightly forward, observing her, but never immediately intervening.
"You think you're clever?" he asked one morning, voice low and calm as he stepped into the kitchen.
"I know I am," she said, smirking. "You just don't like being reminded."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't yell. Instead, he leaned on the counter, arms crossed. "Hmph. You have no idea how reckless you're being."
"Or maybe I do," she replied, voice playful but edged with steel. "Maybe I like it."
For the first time, Xavier's expression softened just slightly. He didn't smile, not truly, but there was an acknowledgment there, an invisible tether pulling tighter with every defiant word.