Aylia POV
Monday doesn't announce itself.
It doesn't crash into me or demand acknowledgment. It doesn't come with drama or warning signs or a sharp intake of breath.
It just… happens.
The halls look the same as always—off-white walls scuffed with years of indifference, lockers shrieking as they're slammed open, someone laughing too loudly near the stairs like they're trying to prove something. Someone else shuts a classroom door hard enough to echo down the corridor.
Nothing is different.
And yet—everything is.
The air feels altered. Thinner. Cooler.
Not cold enough to panic. Just enough to make my skin prickle, like I've stepped into a room where something has already happened and no one bothered to tell me.
I notice it first in the way people look at me.
Not openly. Not with judgment or cruelty.
With awareness.
Eyes linger a fraction too long. Conversations pause when I pass. A subtle recalibration, like people are measuring my position relative to someone else.
I don't need to guess who.
Xavier is already there when I enter the building.
Leaning against the far wall near the administrative offices, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, posture loose enough to appear careless. He looks like he belongs there—like the space has arranged itself around him without asking permission.
He isn't watching me approach.
He doesn't need to.
As I pass him, his voice reaches me—low, even, precise.
"You're late."
"I'm not," I say without breaking stride.
"You usually are," he replies calmly.
That stops me.
I turn slowly. "You keep track of my schedule now?"
"No," he says, finally lifting his eyes to mine. "I track disruptions."
The word lands strangely.
"I don't know what that means," I say.
"I know," he replies.
He steps aside then—not blocking me, not crowding my space. Just moving enough to let me pass.
"Have a good day, Aylia."
The use of my name feels wrong coming from him. Too familiar. Too deliberate.
I walk away anyway.
My chest tightens for reasons I can't fully articulate. Not fear exactly. Not anger either.
Something closer to anticipation.
By third period, it's undeniable.
Xavier doesn't follow me.
He doesn't corner me between classes. Doesn't make cutting remarks meant to unsettle. Doesn't look for opportunities to remind me he exists.
He simply… withdraws.
And somehow, that restraint presses harder than his presence ever did.
In history, he sits two rows ahead of me. He doesn't turn around once. When my pen slips from my fingers and rolls across the floor, stopping near his shoe, he nudges it back with his foot without looking.
A small thing.
Too small.
In the courtyard, he stands with Marcus and Alicia. Alicia notices me immediately—her gaze sharp, assessing, her smile slow and knowing, like she's watching a story unfold exactly the way she expected.
Xavier doesn't look.
That should feel like relief.
It doesn't.
By lunch, my nerves are frayed.
I sit alone, picking at food I don't want, scanning the room without meaning to. Every time someone approaches my table, my body tenses before my mind can catch up.
It's not him.
It's Marcus.
"Hey," he says, careful in the way people are when they think they're stepping onto unstable ground. "You okay?"
I blink up at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He hesitates. "You seem… quieter."
"I'm always quiet."
"That's not true," he says gently.
I don't argue. I don't trust myself to.
Marcus shifts his weight. "If Xavier's bothering you—"
"He's not," I cut in too quickly.
The words rush out of me like a reflex.
Marcus studies me for a long moment, concern tightening his mouth.
"That's… not better," he says quietly.
Before I can respond, the bell rings.
He nods once and walks away.
I don't see Xavier again until science.
Mr. Caldwell is already irritated when we file in, his patience worn thin by years of students who don't care enough to pretend.
"Sit," he snaps. "We're behind."
I slide into my usual seat.
The chair beside me scrapes.
Xavier.
He doesn't look at me.
Mr. Caldwell clears his throat. "We're starting a new unit. Practical application. Kinetic energy transfer."
Groans ripple through the room.
"Partners," he continues. "No switching. You'll present and demonstrate."
My stomach sinks.
I don't believe in coincidence anymore.
"Aylia Zehir. Xavier Atlas."
The room stills.
Not silence. Something sharper.
Expectation.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
"Problem?" Mr. Caldwell snaps.
"No, sir," Xavier says smoothly.
I force my head to nod. "No, sir."
The class exhales.
Xavier turns to me for the first time all day.
"We'll need time outside school," he says evenly. "My place."
There's no pressure in his voice.
That's what makes it dangerous.
"I work," I say.
"I know."
The same words as before.
This time, he adds, "I'll work around it."
I search his face for irony. For control. For threat.
There's nothing.
"Okay," I say.
The word feels too soft. Too yielding.
The rest of the day passes in fragments—bells, footsteps, faces blurring together.
Xavier doesn't hover. Doesn't rush me. Doesn't test boundaries.
When the final bell rings, he's waiting near the doors—not looming. Just present.
"I'll drive," he says.
"I can take the bus."
"You could," he agrees. "It would take longer."
I don't argue.
The car ride is quiet.
Not awkward.
Intentional.
When we arrive, the house is even more intimidating in daylight—clean lines, glass walls, space that feels curated and guarded. Like nothing here exists by accident.
Inside, his father is the first thing that surprises me.
Not because he's kind.
Because he's real.
"You must be Aylia," he says warmly. "I'm Elias."
He asks about school. About work. About how I manage both.
When I mention my second job, his expression changes—not with sympathy or surprise, but something steadier. Evaluative. Almost approving.
"That takes discipline," he says after a beat. "Most people don't learn that until life forces it into them."
There's no condescension in his voice. No hollow encouragement. Just recognition.
Xavier doesn't interrupt. He doesn't fill the space. He just listens, eyes steady, posture still, like he's filing the information away rather than reacting to it.
When I mention my dad, Elias's tone shifts. The sharpness softens at the edges.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Loss rewires you. It teaches you how to carry weight early."
I nod, throat tightening despite myself. The words land too close to something I don't talk about.
Then the front door opens.
And the temperature in the room changes instantly.
Xavier's mother steps inside, presence sharp and immediate. She doesn't ask my name. Doesn't offer a greeting. Her gaze skims over me like something provisional—useful only if it lasts.
Her attention settles on Xavier.
"Don't let distractions interfere with your priorities," she says pointedly.
The word distractions doesn't need clarification.
I understand.
Perfectly.
Upstairs, the room feels smaller than it should.
Not cramped—contained. Like the walls are holding their breath.
We start at the desk, side by side, papers spread between us, the quiet punctuated only by the soft scratch of pen against page. He explains concepts without condescension, pauses when I need time, adjusts his pace without drawing attention to it.
Then, at some point, he shifts.
Moves to the edge of the bed and sits there like it's the most natural thing in the world. No glance back. No question.
Just an invitation he doesn't name.
After a second too long, I follow.
The mattress dips beneath our combined weight, the proximity immediate and undeniable. His knee brushes mine once—accidental, I think—but neither of us moves away.
He's gentle in a way that unsettles me. Attentive without hovering. Careful, like he's aware of how easily something could fracture if pushed too hard.
"You don't have to stay tense," he murmurs, not looking at me.
"I don't know how not to be," I admit.
He turns then, just enough to meet my eyes. "That can be taught," he says quietly.
The words settle between us, intimate and dangerous in their simplicity.
The closeness makes my head spin. Not because he touches me—but because he doesn't.
When it's time to leave, his mother doesn't look up. Doesn't offer a goodbye. The silence is deliberate.
Xavier watches me go from the doorway, his expression unreadable—too controlled to be nothing.
Later, I don't hear the argument.
I feel it in the way the house seemed to exhale me out, in the tension clinging to my skin long after I'm gone.
That night, lying in bed, one thought circles relentlessly:
Kindness shouldn't feel like this.
And yet—
For the first time, I almost believed him.