Xavier's POV
By the following week, the school adjusts.
Not officially. Not openly.
But people adapt the way they always do when something powerful shifts direction—by watching first, then aligning themselves accordingly.
I don't announce anything. I don't claim her.
I simply make it understood that Aylia Zehir is under observation.
That's enough.
Teachers start pairing us without hesitation. Group leaders defer to me when I speak over her protests. Even security stops questioning why I linger in hallways I don't technically belong to.
Influence doesn't require force when expectation does the work for you.
She feels it before she understands it.
I can see it in the way she pauses before entering rooms now. In how she scans corners like she's anticipating collision. In the way she sits closer to exits.
Flight instincts.
Useful to note.
On Wednesday, I intercept her before history.
Not by blocking her path.
By stepping into it just early enough that stopping feels like a choice.
"Walk with me," I say.
She doesn't.
She keeps moving.
So I match her pace.
"I don't owe you conversation," she says.
"No," I agree. "But you owe yourself awareness."
She stops then. Finally. Turns sharply.
"You're not my mentor," she snaps. "You're not my friend. You're not—"
"—someone you can ignore?" I finish calmly.
Her eyes flash. "You're someone I want to."
That almost makes me smile.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you make everything heavier."
The honesty catches me off guard.
Not because it's untrue.
Because it's precise.
"You were already carrying too much," I reply. "I just stopped pretending not to see it."
She scoffs. "You don't see me. You see a problem."
"Everything is a problem before it's solved."
"That's your issue," she says quietly. "You think people are systems."
"And you think you're exempt," I say. "You're not."
She stares at me like she's memorizing my face. Like she's cataloging threat.
"Whatever you're doing," she says slowly, "stop."
I lean closer, lowering my voice—not to intimidate, but to ensure privacy.
"You don't get to ask that," I say. "Not anymore."
Her breath stutters.
Good.
She turns and walks away.
She doesn't look back.
That should feel like victory.
Instead, something sharp twists in my chest—irritation laced with something too close to anticipation.
I don't follow.
Not yet.
Alicia corners me that afternoon.
Not dramatically. Not publicly.
She slides into the passenger seat of my car like she's always belonged there.
"You're dragging this out," she says, checking her reflection in the mirror.
"Am I?" I reply, starting the engine.
"She's still upright," Alicia says. "Still quiet. Still intact."
"That bothers you."
"It should bother you," she counters. "You're losing momentum."
I glance at her. "You're impatient."
She smiles. "I'm efficient."
I pull onto the road.
"You don't get to dictate my pace," I say.
Alicia's tone cools. "Then why am I still cleaning up behind you?"
I tighten my grip on the wheel.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she says lightly, "that your presence is protection whether you intend it or not. People hesitate when you're near her. They shouldn't."
That lands.
"You went behind my back," I say.
She shrugs. "I reinforced the environment."
"You escalated."
"I prepared," she corrects. "If you're going to stay this close to her, you need to stop pretending this is neutral."
I pull over.
Abruptly.
Alicia blinks. "What are you doing?"
I turn to her fully. "You don't touch her world without my consent."
Her smile returns—slow, knowing.
"That's interesting," she says. "Because you haven't told me to stop."
Silence stretches between us.
She leans in slightly. "You're not angry that I interfered."
"I'm angry you assumed I needed help."
"No," Alicia says softly. "You're angry because I made it obvious."
I don't respond.
She studies me for a long moment.
"This is deeper than you thought," she says. "Isn't it?"
I start the car again.
"Stay out of it," I say.
She laughs quietly. "You brought me into it the moment you didn't shut this down."
Marcus finds me later.
This time, he doesn't dance around it.
He waits until the courtyard is empty and then says, "You're crossing into something you won't be able to reverse."
"I don't do irreversible," I reply.
"That's what you said about Reese," he shoots back.
The name hits like blunt force.
"Watch your mouth," I warn.
Marcus doesn't flinch. "You shut down after he died. You turned people into objects because it hurt less. And now you're doing it again—with her."
"She's not—"
"—special?" Marcus interrupts. "Then why are you orbiting her life like it belongs to you?"
I step closer. "You're reading intent where there is none."
"No," he says. "I'm watching behavior."
He gestures toward the building. "You don't corner people like this unless you're afraid of what they make you feel."
I scoff. "That's amateur psychology."
"Then explain this," he says. "Why does it bother you when she doesn't look at you? Why does it irritate you when she laughs without you?"
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Marcus exhales. "You're not in control. You're compensating."
"I don't compensate," I snap.
"You're about to," he says quietly. "And when you do, you won't stop at winning. You'll want proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That she matters to you," Marcus says. "And that's the most dangerous thing you could want."
I walk away.
Not because he's wrong.
Because he's close enough to be dangerous.
That night, I see her again—unexpected.
She's leaving the café, apron folded under her arm, shoulders slumped with exhaustion she doesn't bother hiding.
She freezes when she spots me across the street.
I don't approach.
I don't wave.
I just stand there.
Watching.
She hesitates. Then squares her shoulders and keeps walking.
Past me.
Close enough that I catch the scent of coffee and something softer underneath.
She doesn't look at me.
That hurts more than it should.
As she disappears down the block, a realization settles heavy and unwelcome:
I don't just want access.
I want response.
And if she won't give it freely—
I will engineer the conditions where she has no choice.
That's the moment the line dissolves.
Not the bet.
Not yet.
But the certainty that this is no longer optional.
Something has already started.
And soon, whether I want it or not—
It will demand terms.