Aylia — POV
Something changes the week after everything is supposed to settle.
I keep waiting for the drop.
For the cruelty to sharpen again.For Xavier to pull back and remind me who he is.
He doesn't.
Instead, he becomes… careful.
Not distant. Not cold.
Measured.
It starts small enough that I almost convince myself it's coincidence.
He holds doors. Not dramatically—just enough so I don't have to rush. He waits when teachers dismiss class early, walking beside me without comment, matching my pace like it's unremarkable. When people look too long, he doesn't stare them down. He simply shifts closer, occupying space like gravity does—quietly, inevitably.
The whispers don't stop.
They change.
Less venom. More curiosity.
And that somehow feels worse.
By Wednesday, my shoulders ache from staying tense all the time. From waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It doesn't.
In science, the teacher clears his throat and announces project pairings without ceremony.
"Zehir. Reyes."
The room stills.
I don't move.
I don't look at him.
For a moment, I consider pretending I didn't hear.
"Miss Zehir?" the teacher prompts.
"Yes," I say quickly, standing before I can think better of it.
Xavier rises beside me at the same time. Smooth. Unbothered.
Our names written together on the board feel heavier than they should.
After class, I pack my bag with hands that won't quite stop shaking. I expect him to speak immediately. To comment. To corner me.
He doesn't.
He waits until we're halfway down the hall.
"We'll need a place to work," he says evenly.
I glance at him. "The library—"
"It closes early," he replies. "And it's loud."
"I can work at home," I say. "Individually."
"That defeats the point of a paired project."
I stop walking.
People stream around us. I feel every eye, every breath.
"I don't want to go to your house," I say carefully.
He studies me—not amused, not offended. Considering.
"Fair," he says. "Then tell me where you're comfortable."
The answer lodges in my throat.
There is nowhere.
"I can't host," I say. "My place is… complicated."
He nods once. No follow-up questions.
"Then mine," he says. "Strictly academic."
I snort despite myself. "That's supposed to reassure me?"
"No," he says calmly. "Transparency is."
I hesitate too long.
That's how he knows he's won.
"Tomorrow," he adds. "After your shift."
I freeze. "How did you—"
"You mentioned it once," he says. "At the café."
I don't remember doing that.
Which unsettles me more than I want to admit.
"Fine," I say. "One time."
"Of course," he replies.
He doesn't smile.
Xavier's house is not a house.
It's an estate.
Wrought iron gates open soundlessly as we approach, the driveway long and winding, framed by manicured hedges and stone fountains that look older than my entire neighborhood.
I feel smaller with every step.
"I can turn back," I say quietly.
He glances at me. "You don't need to."
That's not what I meant.
Inside, the air smells like polished wood and something faintly citrus. Wealth doesn't shout here—it hums.
A man's voice carries from the study.
"Xavier?"
His father steps into the hall, tall and broad-shouldered, silver threaded through dark hair. His presence is commanding—but his eyes soften immediately when he sees me.
"And you must be Aylia," he says warmly.
I blink. "Yes, sir."
"No sir," he replies with a smile. "Call me Mr. Reyes if you must, but I'd prefer Daniel."
Xavier stiffens beside me.
Daniel offers his hand. I take it, startled by how solid and grounding his grip is.
"Come in," he says. "Xavier didn't mention he was bringing company."
"We're working on a project," Xavier says.
Daniel's eyes flicker with interest. "Ah. Good."
Good?
"You go to school and work," Daniel says to me suddenly.
I startle. "Yes."
"At the café downtown," he continues. "Long hours."
My mouth opens. Closes.
"Yes."
Daniel hums thoughtfully. "I worked two jobs in school. Three, some weeks."
I look at him, surprised. "You did?"
"Poor kid," he says lightly. "Hard-working parents. Nothing handed to me."
Something tightens in my chest.
"Your father," he adds gently, "he passed, didn't he?"
I swallow. "Yes."
"I'm sorry," he says, and I believe him. "That kind of loss… it changes how you carry the world."
I nod. I don't trust my voice.
Xavier watches this exchange like it's a foreign language.
Daniel smiles at me. "You're welcome here, Aylia."
That's when I realize how badly I needed to hear that.
His mother arrives an hour later.
The temperature in the room drops immediately.
She's immaculate. Sharp. Her eyes assess me like a chart.
"So," she says coolly, "this is the girl."
Xavier bristles. "Mom—"
"It's fine," I say quickly. "I should be leaving soon anyway."
"Good," she replies without hesitation.
The word stings.
Her gaze lingers on my clothes, my shoes, the faint coffee stain I missed this morning.
Daniel frowns. "Beatrice."
"What?" she says. "I'm simply surprised."
By what? she doesn't say.
I excuse myself, cheeks burning.
Xavier leads me upstairs without a word.
His room is large but restrained. Clean lines. No personal photos.
He sets his bag down, pulls his chair closer to the desk.
"We'll finish quickly," he says.
We work.
Actually work.
He explains concepts patiently, adjusting his tone when I push back. He listens. He asks questions.
At some point, the silence shifts.
Not uncomfortable.
Intimate.
When I reach for a book at the same time he does, our fingers brush.
He stills.
I still.
He pulls back immediately.
"Sorry," he says.
Something inside me softens dangerously.
Later, he sits on the edge of the bed, notebook in hand.
"You're good at this," he says.
"At surviving?" I joke weakly.
He looks at me sharply. "At thinking."
I shrug. "I don't have a choice."
He studies me for a long moment.
"You shouldn't have to carry everything alone," he says quietly.
The words hit harder than any insult ever could.
I leave before I can say something reckless.
In the car ride home, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
Did you get home safe? — X
I stare at the screen.
Against my better judgment, I type back.
Yes.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then:
Good.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time since all of this began, I think something dangerous.
Maybe I was wrong about him.