The next night, Xavier received a text.
Meet me now.
No name.
No explanation.
Just those three words.
His heart skipped—once, hard.
---
She was waiting near the old watchtower, where the lights from the barracks thinned and the night opened into something softer. Moonlight brushed her hair, her silhouette calm but tense, as if she might bolt if startled.
Xavier stopped a few steps away.
She turned.
He gulped.
She looked… different. No uniform. No stiff professionalism. Just casual clothes, soft and familiar, like someone he had known in another life.
"I think," he said, trying to steady his voice, "I prefer you like this. Casual suits you better than a nurse's uniform."
She smiled.
And that smile—
it nearly undid him.
"But you're right," he added gently. "There is something different."
She inhaled, slow and deep.
"There's something you should know," she said.
His chest tightened.
This is it, he thought.
She's going to say it.
She's going to tell me there's someone else.
He prepared himself for disappointment the way soldiers prepare for impact—quietly, completely.
"I'm listening," he said.
She clasped her hands together, eyes fixed on the ground.
"You make me smile," she began. "Like a fool. Especially at night."
His breath caught.
"Sometimes I read your texts and my heart surges for no reason. I'll be standing still and suddenly—there it is. Racing."
She laughed nervously. "It's embarrassing."
Xavier didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She continued, voice trembling but steady.
"I think I fell for you… by mistake."
The words landed softly—but they shook the ground beneath him.
"I don't know when it happened. Or how. I don't even know if it's love or attachment or just fear of losing something good again." She looked up at him then, eyes shining. "I'm confused, Xavier. Terrified, actually."
She waited.
For judgment.
For rejection.
For him to pull away.
But Xavier said nothing.
Because he was happy.
Too happy.
The kind of happiness that steals your voice.
The kind that feels fragile, like it might shatter if spoken over.
He stepped closer—slowly, carefully—as if approaching something sacred.
"You didn't fall by mistake," he said quietly. "You survived long enough to feel again."
Her lips parted.
"And whether it's love or attachment," he added, "I don't need you to name it yet."
He smiled—the same gentle smile she had missed.
"I'll wait."
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
She didn't wipe them away.
For the first time in years, she didn't run.
And for the first time in his life—
Xavier felt like the war inside him had finally paused.
Then,
She hugged him.
Tight—
so tight it startled him at first.
Her arms wrapped around his torso like she was afraid he might disappear if she loosened her grip. Her face pressed into his chest, and for a second, she didn't breathe at all—then she exhaled, shaky and broken, like she had been holding that breath for years.
Xavier stood frozen.
Then slowly—carefully—he lifted his arms and held her back.
Not possessive.
Not demanding.
Just there.
Her shoulders trembled.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered into his uniform, voice muffled. "I didn't plan this. I tried not to feel anything."
"I know," he murmured, resting his chin lightly above her head. "You always try to be strong first."
She laughed softly through tears. "Someone had to be."
They stayed like that for a long time.
The world didn't intrude.
No orders.
No uniforms.
No past pain.
Just two people holding on because letting go felt impossible.
His hand rested between her shoulders—not rubbing, not moving—just steady, anchoring her.
"You don't have to decide anything tonight," he said quietly. "Or tomorrow. Or even soon."
She nodded against him.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"So am I," he replied honestly.
That made her tighten her hold again.
And in that moment, under the quiet sky beyond the barracks walls, Isabella realized something important:
Whatever this was—
love or attachment or something still unnamed—
it was real.
And Xavier, feeling her heartbeat racing against his chest, knew something too:
No matter how long Otilla's shadow had stretched across their lives,
it had not killed this.
It had only delayed it.