Alicia POV
A bet doesn't need witnesses.
It needs leverage.
I learned that early—long before Xavier learned how to pretend he wasn't playing.
I watch him from the upper balcony of the school's administrative wing, arms folded, posture relaxed in a way that would fool anyone who didn't know him. He's standing with Aylia near the lockers, angled just enough to look polite. Respectful. Safe.
The shift in her body tells me everything.
She isn't flinching anymore.
That's the moment you act.
Xavier thinks control looks like restraint. Like patience. Like letting things unfold "naturally."
That's adorable.
Natural outcomes are for people without vision.
I head down the stairs, heels quiet against the tile. I don't approach them directly. I never interrupt a scene unless I intend to break it. Instead, I wait until Xavier finishes speaking, until Aylia nods—small, hesitant—and walks away.
Only then do I step into his path.
"You're slipping," I say lightly.
His eyes flick to me. "Good afternoon to you too."
"She smiled," I continue. "That's new."
He stiffens almost imperceptibly. "You're imagining things."
"No," I say. "I'm observing them."
We start walking. Side by side. Casual. Anyone watching would think we were discussing class schedules or weekend plans.
"That wasn't part of the plan," I say.
"There is no plan," Xavier replies coolly. "Not yet."
I stop walking.
He doesn't—takes two more steps before realizing I'm no longer beside him. He turns, irritation flashing before he smooths it away.
"That," I say, "is exactly why I'm stepping in."
His jaw tightens. "I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't stop me either."
Silence stretches between us.
He exhales slowly. "You're overeager."
"And you're compromised."
That lands.
"You're projecting," he says.
"No," I reply. "I'm adjusting for risk."
We enter the empty student council room. Sunlight spills across the long table. Dust motes float lazily in the air—peaceful, almost sacred.
I close the door behind us.
"You're spending time with her," I continue. "Real time. Not surveillance. Not proximity for effect. You're softening."
"I'm calibrating."
"You're indulging."
His eyes sharpen. "Careful."
I smile. "Or what? You'll tell me this suddenly matters?"
That's when he looks away.
Just for a second.
Enough.
I step closer. "You don't get to pretend this isn't happening. You don't get to drag this out until your feelings decide what you're willing to do."
"I don't have feelings," he snaps.
I laugh quietly. "Then why haven't you crushed her yet?"
That does it.
The air changes—pressure rolling off him in a way most people mistake for anger. It isn't.
It's resistance.
"Say what you want," he says, voice low. "But you don't get to formalize anything without me."
I tilt my head. "Without you?"
I pull my phone from my pocket and slide it across the table.
A document glows on the screen.
Names. Conditions. Timelines.
A wager.
He stares at it.
"You're out of line," he says.
"You were out of time," I reply. "You want to pretend this is still optional? Fine. But I'm not risking the outcome because you decided to play house."
His fingers hover over the phone.
"You did this behind my back," he says.
"I did this for you."
"What are the terms?" he asks.
I smile wider. Victory tastes better when it's quiet.
"She trusts you," I say. "That's the currency now. Not fear. Not force."
"And when she does?" he asks.
"When she gives you something real," I reply softly, "you decide whether you break her or keep her."
He looks up sharply. "That was never—"
"Don't insult me," I cut in. "You don't circle people like this unless you want something irreversible."
Silence.
He doesn't deny it.
"That's the bet," I say. "Not whether she falls. But whether you do."
He pushes the phone back toward me. Hard.
"I'm not agreeing to this."
I pick it up calmly. "You already have."
His eyes narrow. "I didn't sign anything."
"You don't need to," I reply. "You're still here. Still engaging. Still letting this continue."
I lean in.
"And you didn't tell me to stop."
That's when I see it.
Not fear.
Recognition.
I straighten. "It's locked," I say. "With or without your consent."
He turns away, fists clenched.
I open the door.
"Oh," I add lightly. "Be careful now."
He doesn't look at me.
"Kindness," I finish, "is the fastest way to lose."
I leave him standing there.
The bet sealed.
Aylia POV — Almost Saying It
Something changes the day Xavier smiles at me like it means something.
Not the sharp one. Not the controlled one.
The soft one.
It happens in science class.
We're paired without discussion—again. The teacher doesn't even hesitate anymore. It's like the decision was made long before I walked into the room.
Xavier pulls his chair closer to mine, slow and deliberate.
"We'll do the presentation together," he says.
"I don't remember agreeing—"
"I already spoke to the teacher," he replies gently. "It's easier this way."
That word again.
Easier.
I hate how often it works.
At his house, everything feels wrong in a way I can't explain.
Too clean. Too quiet.
His father greets me warmly, offers tea, asks about school. He listens when I mention my second job. Doesn't interrupt when I talk about my dad.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "That kind of loss stays with you."
I nod, throat tight.
When his mother comes home, the temperature drops.
She looks me over like I'm something dragged in on expensive carpet.
"You didn't mention company," she says sharply.
"I forgot," Xavier replies, equally sharp.
We retreat upstairs.
His room is neat. Controlled. Predictable.
He sits on the bed—invites me to sit beside him.
Too close.
He explains the project patiently. His voice is calm. Kind.
His hand brushes mine.
Accidental.
Then again.
Deliberate.
I pull away, heart racing.
"Xavier—"
"It's fine," he murmurs. "I won't hurt you."
The words shouldn't comfort me.
They do.
That scares me more than anything else.
I leave soon after.
His mother criticizes me openly as I go.
He doesn't respond.
That night, lying in bed, I almost text him something I shouldn't.
Something soft.
Something true.
I delete it.
I don't know the rules of the game I'm in.
But I know this:
Whatever kindness he's offering—
It isn't free.