Aylia's POV
The first thing that changes is his voice.
Not the words.Not the frequency.
The tone.
Xavier stops speaking like he's issuing commands and starts speaking like he's making room.
It shouldn't unsettle me.
It does.
On Tuesday morning, he doesn't intercept me in the hallway. He doesn't match my pace or block my path or say my name like it's a summons.
He waits.
Leaning against the wall near the science wing, phone tucked away, posture loose in a way I've never seen before. When I approach, he doesn't straighten.
He just looks at me.
"Morning," he says.
That's it.
No commentary.No analysis.No pressure disguised as concern.
I slow despite myself.
"Morning," I reply, cautious.
Something flickers in his expression — not triumph. Not relief.
Assessment.
He falls into step beside me without crowding.
"I asked Mr. Hale to move our project deadline," he says casually. "You work evenings. It didn't make sense to compress your time."
My fingers tighten around my bag strap.
"You didn't need to do that."
"I know."
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, he adds, "But I wanted to."
There's no edge in his voice.
No expectation.
And somehow that makes my skin prickle.
We walk the rest of the way in silence.
Not the tense kind.
The dangerous kind.
In class, he doesn't take over.
Doesn't speak for me.
When the teacher assigns us a lab station together, Xavier simply gestures for me to take the seat closest to the equipment — the one with better access.
I notice.
I hate that I notice.
When I make a mistake with the measurements, he doesn't correct me out loud. He slides the notebook closer and points quietly.
"You switched units," he murmurs. "Easy fix."
No humiliation.
No audience.
My throat tightens.
"Thanks," I say.
He nods once and turns back to his work.
That's worse than if he'd smiled.
At lunch, he doesn't sit with me.
He passes by.
But later, I find a coffee on my table — untouched, still warm.
No note.
I don't drink it.
But my hands shake when I throw it away.
By Thursday, the shift is undeniable.
People stop whispering when I walk past.
They watch instead.
Like they're waiting to see which version of him I get.
I don't know either.
In science class, Mr. Hale claps his hands together.
"Project partners will need to coordinate outside of class time," he announces. "I expect documented collaboration."
Xavier turns to me.
"We can use my place," he says calmly. "If that's okay."
Every instinct I have screams no.
Every practical part of my life says yes.
I glance at my schedule. Work starts late tonight. Mom's double-shift means the house will be loud. Distracting.
"I—" I hesitate. "That's fine."
The word feels heavier than it should.
His gaze sharpens for half a second.
Then softens again.
"I'll drive," he says. "No rush."
His house is… quieter than I expect.
Not cold. Not sterile.
Lived in.
The walls are lined with art that looks chosen, not curated. The floors gleam, but there are scuff marks near the stairs. Evidence of motion. Of life.
His father answers the door.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Silver threading his dark hair.
"You must be Aylia," he says warmly. "Xavier mentioned you."
My stomach drops.
"He did?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Xavier shoots me a look — not sharp. Amused.
"Come in," his father says. "I'm Daniel."
He doesn't look at me like I'm something to be evaluated.
He looks at me like I belong in the room.
That alone nearly undoes me.
We sit at the kitchen island while Xavier grabs materials. Daniel pours tea without asking what I like.
"You work after school," he says conversationally.
I freeze. "Yes."
"Cafe, right?"
"Yes."
"And weekends?" he presses gently.
"…Cleaning offices."
He nods, thoughtful. "I did construction nights when I was your age. Studied during the day. My parents needed help."
I swallow.
"My dad used to say exhaustion was temporary," I say quietly. "But regret lasts."
Daniel's expression softens.
"He was right."
My chest aches.
"I'm sorry about your father," he adds after a pause. "Xavier told me."
Xavier stills behind us.
"I'm sorry," I manage.
Daniel meets my gaze. "Loss teaches you responsibility too early."
Something passes between us — recognition.
Then the front door opens.
Heels. Sharp. Precise.
Xavier's mother enters without looking at me.
"Who's this?" she asks coolly.
"Aylia," Daniel replies easily. "Xavier's classmate."
Her eyes flick to me — brief. Dismissive.
"I see," she says. "I assumed tutoring."
The word stings.
Xavier's jaw tightens.
"We're working on a project," he says evenly.
She hums. "Don't let it interfere with priorities."
Her gaze lingers on my worn shoes.
Then she turns away.
Something inside me hardens.
Upstairs, Xavier's room is immaculate.
Too immaculate.
He closes the door softly.
"You didn't deserve that," he says.
I shrug. "I'm used to it."
His eyes darken.
"I'm not."
We work for an hour.
Actual work.
He explains concepts patiently. Asks questions instead of answering them himself. When I get frustrated, he waits it out.
The air changes slowly.
Subtly.
He moves closer under the excuse of pointing at the screen. His hand brushes mine — barely there.
"Is this okay?" he asks quietly.
The question disarms me.
"Yes," I say.
That's when I realize how long it's been since someone asked.
He doesn't rush.
Doesn't push.
Just stays close.
Too close.
When I stand to leave, he walks me to the door.
"I'm glad you came," he says.
"So am I," I admit before I can stop myself.
His smile is small. Controlled.
After I leave, I don't see the argument.
I don't hear the criticism.
I don't know he locks his door or that his father knocks and gets no answer.
All I know is this:
The next day, Xavier is gentler.
And somehow, that's when I start to feel truly afraid.
Because cruelty was obvious.
This?
This feels like being slowly convinced to step closer to the edge.
And I don't know when I stopped pulling back.