By the third week, the room started to feel less like a prison to her and more like a space where she could measure her freedom within limits. She still ignored him at times, rolling her eyes when he offered a comment, muttering sarcastic remarks under her breath, but occasionally, she caught him off guard with her humour or insight.
"You're unusually quiet today," she said one morning, leaning against the bedpost.
"I'm observing," he replied curtly. "You've been humming less. Why?"
"I'm conserving my energy," she said, shrugging. "Not that you care."
His lips curved into a faint, fleeting smile. "I do care," he murmured, almost too quickly, like a secret he couldn't hold.
Her chest tightened, and she shook her head. "You're impossible."
"And you," he said softly, "are maddening."
They shared a brief silence, but it was no longer filled with tension alone—it carried an undercurrent of something neither wanted to name.
By the fourth week, Jemma began noticing little habits of his presence: the way he would quietly read in the armchair late at night, the small smirk when she corrected him on something trivial, the rare softening of his voice when he thought no one was listening. She still pushed boundaries, teasing him, challenging his patience, but slowly, she found herself listening more, noticing when he entered the room, and feeling a strange need to fill the space around him with life.
"You've been staring at me for the last ten minutes," she said one evening, hands on her hips.
"I'm ensuring you're still breathing," he replied, tone flat but eyes sharp.
"I'm fine," she shot back, smirking. "Though you seem to enjoy worrying."
"I do," he admitted quietly, almost reluctantly. "More than I should."
Her smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. "That's… disturbing," she said.
He leaned back slightly, keeping his composure. "Maybe. But it's the truth."
By the fifth week, Jemma caught herself listening when he entered the room, noting the subtle ways he moved, the faintest sigh when she flitted past him, the unspoken patience behind his gaze. She still kept her defiance, still refused to give him full control over her feelings, but she felt a shift. His presence was no longer suffocating, it was… grounding, though she'd never admit it aloud.
"Why do you always watch me?" she asked one night, folding the blanket on the bed with deliberate care.
"Because I like knowing you're safe," he said, tone even but firm. "Even when you pretend otherwise."
"I'm not a child," she muttered.
"No," he said quietly, almost as if thinking to himself, "but I still care."
She blinked, startled at the rare admission. She looked away quickly, trying to cover the quickening of her pulse.
By the sixth week, a rhythm had formed. She would still argue, tease, hum while he observed, and push boundaries, but she began speaking more freely, sharing snippets of her thoughts, challenging him in ways that made him smirk and groan simultaneously. Xavier, in turn, maintained his cold, calm persona outwardly, but privately, he allowed himself moments of admiration and even… fondness.
"You're enjoying this too much," he said one night when she laughed at a joke she made about his rare smile.
"I can't help it," she said, grinning. "You're ridiculous when you try to be intimidating."
"And you," he murmured, voice low, "are reckless in ways I don't understand but… I like it."
Her grin faltered again. "You say that like it's a compliment."
"In my language," he said quietly, "it is."
They shared a long silence, filled not with tension, but with a quiet understanding. Neither had to give up their defiance or control entirely, they had simply found a fragile, unspoken balance.
The morning was quiet, the house bathed in soft golden light. Jemma moved through her routine with the same brisk efficiency she had developed over the past week, making the bed, tidying the room, and arranging Xavier's papers on his desk exactly where he liked them. But there was a weight in her chest she couldn't ignore, an unfamiliar tightness she tried to smother.
Xavier had been distant the night before, disappearing into his office after a terse conversation with his aides. Now, in the early hours, he stood by the window in the corner of the room, arms crossed, his presence unyielding even in silence.
"You're unusually quiet this morning," he said, his voice cutting through her thoughts.
"I'm busy," she replied sharply, forcing the words out before her gaze could meet his. Her fingers clenched the edge of the desk, betraying her composure.
His eyes, dark and unrelenting, followed her every movement. "Something on your mind," he observed.
"No," she said quickly, her voice flat. "Nothing worth mentioning."
He stepped closer, the space between them charged without a word. "You're lying," he said simply, his tone calm but firm. "And I can see it. Always."
Jemma stiffened, unwilling to meet his gaze. She wanted to deny it, to fight the acknowledgment that she was thinking of him more than she should, that part of her chest tightened at his nearness, that his absence would leave her unsettled.
"I'm not lying," she murmured, almost to herself.
He tilted his head, studying her. "Then why do you move like you're hiding something?"
Her hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. "I'm… I'm just getting used to things. That's all," she said, forcing a shrug.
"Getting used to me?" His tone was calm but threaded with curiosity. "Or something else?"
Jemma froze. Her heart beat faster, betraying her inner turmoil. She wanted to brush it off, to keep the armor of defiance intact, but the truth pressed too close to the surface. She wanted him to leave, wanted the air in the room to be free again, but the thought of his absence made her chest ache unexpectedly.
"I… I have things to do," she muttered, more firmly than necessary, turning away to busy herself with arranging his papers.
He didn't move, just stood behind her silently for a long moment, and she felt the weight of his gaze. Then, almost casually, he said, "I'm leaving on a business trip. Soon. You'll stay here."
The words should have been neutral, routine. But the knot in her chest tightened. She bit her lip to hide the sudden flare of emotion, forcing herself to focus on the papers in front of her. She could feel her pulse in her temples, rapid and uneven.
"You're… you're leaving?" she asked, her voice catching slightly despite herself.
"Yes," he said, still calm. "For several days. I'll be unreachable for most of it. You know the rules."
Jemma forced a nod, turning her attention back to the papers. "Of course," she said, her voice clipped. But even as she spoke, she felt the pang of something she couldn't name, something that made her hands tremble slightly as she straightened the sheets.
Xavier's eyes never left her. He noticed the subtle shifts in her posture, the way she avoided his gaze, the brief hitch in her breathing. "You're pretending you're fine," he said quietly, almost to himself. "You're not. You never are."
Jemma froze, fingers hovering over a stack of documents. "I'm fine," she repeated, forcing the words like a shield.
"You're not," he said again, softer now, almost reluctant, almost a whisper. "And I can see it."
Her chest tightened further. "Why do you care?" she asked, spinning on him finally, frustration bleeding through. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
He didn't flinch. His expression was unreadable, cold and calm, yet his eyes betrayed the smallest flicker of something deeper, something like fear, like unease. "Because you matter," he said simply. "And if I leave, I don't know how you'll behave. You'd find a way to scare me even more."
Jemma opened her mouth to retort, but the words stuck. Her heart pounded. Part of her wanted to deny it, to push him away with sarcasm or defiance, but another part, far quieter and more dangerous, wanted to admit that his words had touched her, that she had been feeling… something she hadn't yet named.
"You… you think I scare you?" she asked softly, almost incredulous.
"I do," he said plainly, the faintest exhale escaping him. "I shouldn't. But I do."
Her chest tightened, and she looked down at her hands, gripping the edges of the desk. The words lingered in the air like smoke. She felt exposed, seen in a way she hadn't allowed herself to feel for anyone.
"And what does that mean for me?" she asked finally, her voice steady despite the tumult inside her.
"It means," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "that when I return, things will be different. You'll still defy me, I know, but… you'll also understand I've always been watching. Always."
Jemma's throat constricted. She wanted to protest, to claim that she didn't need his constant presence, that she didn't care—but the truth felt heavy on her tongue. She wanted him to go, yet she also didn't want him to leave.
The silence stretched, charged with unspoken acknowledgment. Xavier watched her, steady and calm, though the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the unease of someone leaving something precious behind.
"I'm… I'll manage," she said finally, her voice low. "Don't worry about me."
"I don't worry," he corrected, voice firm. "I watch. Always."
And with that, he left the room, leaving Jemma standing in the quiet, her chest tight, pulse racing. She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets, a faint ache blooming in her stomach. She hadn't realized it until now, but his absence felt heavier than it should. She could feel her own thoughts circling, him, his presence, the way he watched, the way he cared, and a realization hit her like a jolt: she was beginning to feel something.
Something she wasn't ready to name.
She buried her face in her hands, trying to smother the fluttering warmth in her chest, but it was impossible. Xavier's presence, or even the thought of his absence, had begun to matter to her in ways she had never allowed herself before. And that terrified her.
Because for all her defiance, for all her independence, she was realizing slowly, painfully, that she might… like him.
And she had no way of hiding it from him.