The next morning, Xavier put on his uniform like armor.
Button by button.
Belt tight.
Posture straight.
If he looked disciplined enough, maybe his thoughts would follow.
They didn't.
"Sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
The voice had called his name twice before it reached him.
Xavier blinked and snapped to attention, heat rushing to his face.
"I asked if you understood," the captain said sharply.
"Yes, sir," Xavier replied, though he had no idea what he'd just agreed to.
The captain frowned but moved on.
Xavier exhaled slowly.
This had never happened to him before.
He stood at the gate he had guarded for months.
The same iron bars.
The same stretch of road.
But his eyes kept drifting to the left—to where she usually appeared, box balanced against her hip, steps measured but determined.
She didn't come.
Of course she didn't.
The shop was closed.
Her father was ill.
Her brother was—
Xavier's jaw tightened.
Focus.
A car passed. Then another.
Each time, his heart lifted foolishly before sinking again.
"She won't come," he muttered under his breath.
Yet he kept looking.
During lunch, he sat alone.
Food untouched.
A fellow guard dropped into the seat across from him. "You alright? You've been off lately."
"I'm fine," Xavier said automatically.
The man studied him. "You don't miss steps."
Xavier almost laughed.
He was missing everything.
Orders blurred.
Time dragged.
Even Otilla's presence failed to command his full attention when she passed him in the corridor, eyes flicking to his face with sharp interest.
She noticed.
That worried him—but not enough.
Because his mind was somewhere else entirely.
It wandered to Isabella's apartment window.
To the hospital room where her father lay.
To the way she must be holding herself together simply because no one else could.
Is she eating?
Is she sleeping?
Is anyone helping her?
The thoughts came uninvited, relentless.
By evening, resistance gave way to acceptance.
He leaned against the cool stone wall at his post, staring out at the city.
"This is love," he admitted quietly.
Not infatuation.
Not desire.
But the steady, aching pull toward someone else's well-being.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
Why Otilla's cruelty enraged him.
Why Andrea's arrest felt personal.
Why the silence at the gate felt unbearable.
Because it wasn't just injustice anymore.
It was her.
Xavier closed his eyes.
He had trained his whole life to master his body, his reflexes, his fear.
No one had taught him what to do when his heart refused orders.
When his shift finally ended, he didn't go back to his room immediately.
He stood there a moment longer, watching the road where Isabella used to walk.
"I love you," he whispered into the evening air, the words both terrifying and grounding.
She wasn't there to hear them.
But the truth had finally settled.
And from that day on, every choice he would make—every risk, every defiance—would begin with her name, even when he didn't dare say it aloud.