Aylia's POV
The first thing I notice is that people stop bumping into me.
It's small. Almost polite. The kind of thing that shouldn't matter—but it does, because it's wrong.
Hallways at school are never gentle. They're loud and crowded and careless. People shove past you without looking. You learn to angle your shoulders, keep your head down, move fast.
Except now, they move around me.
Not dramatically. No one apologizes or stares. They just… adjust. Like I've become an obstacle they've been warned about.
By the time I reach my locker, my hands are shaking.
I tell myself I'm imagining it.
That's what you do when something feels off but you don't have proof. You blame nerves. Lack of sleep. Stress.
You don't blame a person.
And yet—
Xavier is already there.
Leaning against the lockers like he belongs everywhere at once. His posture is loose, casual, almost bored. But his eyes lift the moment I stop walking.
Not surprised.
Expectant.
"Morning," he says.
His voice is softer than it used to be. That's what scares me most.
"Hi," I answer, because ignoring him takes more energy than I have.
He watches me fumble with the lock. Doesn't help. Doesn't rush me. Just waits.
"You didn't finish your notes last night," he says lightly.
I stiffen. "I had work."
"I know."
That word lands wrong.
"You know?" I repeat.
He nods. "Late shift. Café ran over. You closed."
My chest tightens. "How would you—"
"I asked," he says simply. "Your manager talks too much."
That should sound like a joke.
It doesn't.
"You didn't have to do that," I say.
"I wanted to," he replies. "You looked exhausted."
There it is again.
Concern.
Carefully placed. Precisely measured.
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
He tilts his head, studying me like he's recalculating something. "You're surviving."
"That's the same thing."
"It isn't."
I slam my locker shut harder than necessary. "Why are you suddenly like this?"
"Like what?"
"Nice."
He considers that. Actually considers it.
"Because you don't respond to pressure," he says. "You respond to relief."
My pulse stutters.
"That's not—"
"An insult?" he finishes. "No. It's an observation."
I shoulder past him. "I don't need relief."
He falls into step beside me.
"You shouldn't need it," he says. "But you do."
By second period, the shift becomes undeniable.
I'm paired with Xavier in science before I even open my mouth.
Mr. Halvorsen glances at the seating chart, then at us. "You two work well together. Make it official."
I start to object.
Xavier speaks first.
"That's fine," he says. "I'll handle the outline."
The teacher nods, already moving on.
I stare at him. "You didn't ask me."
"You would've said no," he replies calmly. "This saves time."
I swallow. "You don't get to decide that."
His pen moves steadily across the page. "You're right."
He slides the notebook toward me.
"So decide," he says. "Do you want to work efficiently or exhaust yourself proving a point no one's watching?"
I hate that he's right.
I hate that he knows it.
We work in near silence after that. Not awkward—focused. He doesn't crowd me. Doesn't touch me. When our hands brush once, accidentally, he pulls away first.
That should reassure me.
Instead, it feels deliberate.
At the end of class, he gathers the papers and says, "Come to my place after school."
My heart slams against my ribs. "What?"
"The lab portion will take hours," he says. "You have work. My house is closer."
"I don't—"
"You agreed to the project," he says gently. "This is part of it."
"I didn't agree to—"
"I'll have my driver take you home after," he adds. "You won't be late."
The kindness tightens.
Not force.
Assumption.
I hesitate just long enough for him to notice.
"You don't have to," he says quietly. "I just thought you'd prefer not staying up all night."
He meets my eyes.
Something in his gaze softens. Not weakness. Precision.
"I won't cross any lines," he adds. "You have my word."
That's what does it.
Not the promise—but the way he says it like he knows exactly which line I'm afraid of.
"Okay," I say.
The word tastes like surrender.
His house is too big to feel real.
It's quiet in a way that presses against my ears, all clean lines and muted colors. Everything polished. Everything intentional.
His father greets us at the door.
Not formally. Not cold.
"You must be Aylia," he says, smiling like he's genuinely pleased. "Xavier's told us about you."
My stomach flips. "He has?"
"Good things," his father adds. "Come in. You look tired."
I blink, caught off guard.
He asks about school. About my classes. About my work.
Not prying—listening.
When he learns I have a second job, his brows lift. "That's a heavy load."
"It's just how it is," I say.
"And your family?" he asks.
The question opens something I didn't expect.
"My dad passed," I say quietly. "A few years ago."
He nods slowly. "I'm sorry."
The sincerity in his voice almost hurts.
"He'd be proud," he says. "Of how hard you work."
My throat tightens.
Xavier watches from the doorway.
Not smiling.
Not interrupting.
Just observing.
His mother arrives halfway through our conversation.
Her gaze sweeps over me once. Sharp. Appraising.
"Oh," she says. "You must be the girl."
Not you must be Aylia.
The girl.
"I hope you're not distracting my son," she continues coolly.
"I—no, ma'am," I say quickly.
She nods like she's already decided something. "Xavier, keep this brief. Dinner is in an hour."
Her eyes flick to my clothes. My shoes.
Then she's gone.
I don't breathe properly again until we're upstairs.
His room is large and minimal. Bed neatly made. Desk organized to the inch.
"We'll work here," he says. "Sit."
I take the chair. He sits on the bed.
We go over the project. It's efficient. Almost normal.
Too normal.
At some point, I realize he's watching me again.
"You're tense," he says softly.
"I'm fine."
He stands. Moves closer—but not too close.
"You don't have to be," he says. "Not here."
My chest tightens. "You don't know that."
"I do," he replies. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you."
That word again.
Let.
I stand abruptly. "I should go."
He doesn't block me.
That's the worst part.
He steps back. "Of course."
The gentleness feels heavier than restraint ever did.
Later, as his driver takes me home, I replay every moment.
The kindness.
The protection.
The way people moved aside.
The way teachers deferred.
The way his name seems to hover around me like a warning.
I don't know what changed.
I just know something has.
And whatever this is—it isn't over.
It's only tightening.