Xavier POV
Trust doesn't announce itself.
It leaks in.
I notice it on a Tuesday morning, in the way Aylia doesn't flinch when I take the seat beside her in class.
Not relax—she never relaxes—but she doesn't stiffen either. Her shoulders stay where they are. Her pen doesn't pause mid-stroke. Her breathing remains steady, shallow but even.
That's new.
The classroom hums with low conversation as people settle. Someone laughs too loudly near the windows. A chair scrapes. Normal sounds. Predictable sounds.
Aylia doesn't look at me.
She doesn't have to.
"You're early," she says, eyes still on her notebook.
"So are you."
"I had a shift before this." A pause. "I didn't want to be late."
She offers the explanation like it's nothing. Like she hasn't been guarding her personal details like classified information since the day we met.
Trust leaks in.
The teacher clears her throat and starts droning about molecular bonding, assigning partners for the term project. I already know what's coming. I've known since last night.
"Aylia Zehir and Xavier Moreau."
A ripple moves through the room. Not shock. Recognition.
Aylia's pen finally stills.
She turns her head slowly. "You did this."
"I didn't have to," I reply quietly. "It was inevitable."
Her eyes narrow. "That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She studies my face like she's searching for something unstable. A crack. A tell.
I give her none.
The rest of the class passes with minimal friction. She doesn't argue when I take the lead on planning. She doesn't pull away when I lean closer to point something out on her page.
At one point, our fingers brush.
She doesn't recoil.
I should feel victorious.
Instead, something sharp twists beneath my ribs.
By the time the final bell rings, I already know how this will go.
"You should come over," I say as we pack up. Casual. Controlled. Reasonable. "My place is quieter. We'll finish faster."
She hesitates.
There it is. The last reflex of self-preservation.
"Your place," she repeats.
"For the project."
"I know what it's for."
I wait. Silence is pressure. Silence lets people fill the space with their fears.
"What time?" she asks.
I hide my satisfaction. "Now."
Her mouth opens. Closes. Then she nods once. "Okay."
Trust leaks in.
My father answers the door himself.
That alone disarms her.
He's still in his work clothes—rolled sleeves, loosened tie, posture worn but solid. He takes one look at Aylia and smiles like she's a guest, not an intrusion.
"You must be Aylia," he says warmly. "I've heard about you."
She stiffens. "You have?"
"Only that you're smart and stubborn," he replies. "Both excellent traits."
I shoot him a warning look.
He ignores it.
Inside, the house feels different with her in it. Smaller. Sharper. Like everything has edges now.
They talk in the kitchen while I grab water. He asks about school. About work. She answers carefully at first, then with growing ease.
"I help my mom," she says. "We need the income."
"And your father?" my dad asks gently.
Her voice dips. "He passed away."
Something passes between them then. Recognition. History.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I lost my father young too. Worked three jobs through university. It teaches you discipline. And resentment."
She gives a quiet, humorless laugh. "I already have both."
Trust leaks in.
Then my mother comes home.
The temperature drops.
She barely glances at Aylia. Her eyes flick over her clothes, her posture, the way she stands too politely, like someone used to being evaluated.
"So," my mother says, setting her bag down. "This is the girl."
Aylia straightens. "Yes, ma'am."
My mother's smile is tight. "You should be careful, Xavier. Distractions have consequences."
Aylia flushes. "I don't mean to—"
"You rarely do," my mother interrupts coolly.
I step in. "We're going upstairs."
No argument. Just finality.
In my room, the air feels heavier.
Aylia perches on the edge of the bed like she's afraid it might bite.
"You can sit," I say lightly.
"I am sitting."
I move closer, not touching. "You don't trust me."
She swallows. "I'm trying."
That lands harder than I expect.
I soften my voice. Lower it. Strip it of command. "You're safe here."
The words taste dangerous.
She looks at me then. Really looks.
"I don't think you lie," she says. "I think you… choose which truth to use."
I almost smile.
She doesn't pull away when I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
Trust leaks in.
And I hate it.
Because now I don't just want compliance.
I want belief.
That night, long after she's gone, my phone lights up.
Alicia.
She's warming up.
I don't reply.
That's not part of the plan.
I close my eyes.
Trust is a weakness.
And Alicia never lets weaknesses survive.