Xavier POV
I don't realize it's happening at first.
That's the most dangerous part.
Trust doesn't arrive like a confession or a dramatic shift. It doesn't announce itself. It seeps in through the cracks people leave behind when they get tired of fighting every second of the day.
Aylia is tired.
I see it now.
I see it in the way she exhales when she sits beside me instead of holding her breath. In the way her shoulders drop a fraction when I speak, instead of tensing. In the way she stops bracing for impact that never comes.
It starts in science class.
The room smells like chemicals and whiteboard cleaner, the low hum of voices filling the air as people pair off. I don't wait for the teacher to assign us. I don't need to.
I take the stool beside hers and set my notebook down.
She looks up, startled—but not angry.
That's new.
"You're assuming," she says quietly, gesturing between us, "that we're partners."
"I'm confirming it," I reply.
She studies my face, searching for arrogance, for dominance, for the pressure she's learned to expect from me.
She finds none.
Her mouth tightens. Then she nods once. "Fine."
Not defiant.
Practical.
We work in silence at first. She's focused—careful with her measurements, precise in her notes. I watch her from the corner of my eye, cataloging the differences.
She's not rushing.
She's not flinching.
She trusts the space.
"That formula's off," I say calmly after a while.
She pauses. Doesn't snap. Doesn't retreat.
"Where?"
I lean closer and point. Our shoulders brush. She doesn't pull away.
"Here," I say. "You skipped the conversion."
She frowns, rereads her work, then sighs. "You're right."
No defensiveness.
No resentment.
Just acceptance.
Something inside my chest tightens—not satisfaction, not victory.
Awareness.
I hand her my pen. "Fix it."
She takes it without hesitation.
Our fingers touch.
She stills—not because she's afraid, but because she notices.
So do I.
She clears her throat and focuses on the page. "You're… different lately."
I keep my voice even. "Different how?"
"Less…" She trails off, searching. "Less sharp."
Interesting choice of words.
"Is that a complaint?" I ask.
"No," she says quickly. Then softer, "It's just unexpected."
I lean back slightly. Give her room.
Unexpected is good.
Unexpected is how walls fall.
After class, she doesn't immediately leave.
She packs her bag slowly, deliberately.
Waiting.
"Are you walking this way?" she asks, gesturing toward the main corridor.
I don't hesitate. "Yes."
She nods, relief flickering across her face before she hides it.
That relief does something ugly and possessive to my thoughts.
We walk side by side. Not close. Not distant.
Balanced.
"I don't like when people stare," she says suddenly.
"They're staring because they're confused," I reply. "Confusion passes."
She glances at me. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then it becomes expectation," I say. "And people adapt."
She hums thoughtfully. "You talk like everything is predictable."
"Most things are."
"People aren't," she counters.
I look at her. Really look.
"You're more predictable than you think," I say. "You just don't realize it yet."
Her lips part, ready to argue—then she stops.
"…What does that mean?"
"It means," I say evenly, "you don't like chaos. You endure it because you've had to. But you relax when someone else carries the weight."
She slows her steps.
I stop with her.
"That's not fair," she says quietly.
"Is it untrue?"
She doesn't answer.
That silence is louder than any protest.
We part ways near the courtyard. She hesitates before leaving, fingers tightening around her bag strap.
"Thanks," she says. "For… today."
I nod once. "Anytime."
She walks away.
She doesn't look over her shoulder.
And that—
That bothers me more than when she used to.
Because before, her fear gave me certainty.
Now?
Her calm introduces risk.
By Wednesday, the change is undeniable.
She sits closer in class. Asks questions without bracing herself. When people whisper, she doesn't immediately withdraw—she looks to me first, instinctively, as if gauging whether she needs to defend herself.
I don't intervene.
I don't have to.
My presence does the work for me.
At lunch, she joins me without being asked.
Not at my table.
Near it.
Close enough to matter.
"You don't have to sit here," I say.
"I know," she replies. "I want to."
The words settle heavy and unwelcome.
Want is not part of the equation.
Shouldn't be.
We talk about the project. About deadlines. About nothing that matters.
And yet—
It does.
Because she laughs.
Because she tells me about her second job when I ask why she's always exhausted.
Because she doesn't look embarrassed when she admits she's struggling—just honest.
"I don't really have a choice," she says. "Someone has to keep things running."
"Who?" I ask.
"My family."
That's all she says.
But it's enough.
That night, I lie awake longer than usual.
Not thinking about strategy.
Thinking about the way she looked when she trusted me with something real.
This is the danger zone.
This is where Alicia would say I'm losing focus.
This is where Marcus would say I should walk away.
I don't.
Instead, I adjust.
I soften my voice. I listen more. I stop pressing.
And in doing so, I feel the shift solidify.
She starts texting me first.
Not long messages. Just check-ins.
Questions.
Small things that signal reliance.
That's when it hits me—clear and undeniable:
She's emotionally open now.
Not wide.
Not reckless.
But open enough that what comes next will shape her.
That realization doesn't make me feel powerful.
It makes me feel cornered.
Because now, every move matters.
Because now, the bet—spoken or not—is no longer theoretical.
Because if this goes too far, she won't just fall.
She'll break.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep down, a part of me doesn't want to stop.
Marcus POV — The Last Attempt
I don't ambush Xavier.
I don't corner him.
I wait.
That's the mistake most people make—they rush the warning. They come in hot, emotional, accusatory.
Xavier doesn't respond to that.
He responds to inevitability.
So I wait until Friday evening, until the parking lot is nearly empty, until the sky is bleeding orange into dusk and he can't pretend this is just another interruption.
He's leaning against his car when I approach, phone in hand, expression unreadable.
"You look relaxed," I say.
He doesn't look up. "You're imagining things."
"No," I reply. "I'm noticing patterns."
That gets his attention.
He pockets the phone and turns toward me. "You always do."
"Someone has to."
We stand there in silence for a moment.
Then I say it.
"She trusts you now."
His jaw tightens.
I continue. "You've changed your tactics. You're softer. Quieter. More… human."
"That's not an insult," he says coolly.
"No," I agree. "It's a warning."
He exhales sharply. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I do," I say. "Because I've seen this before."
He stiffens. "Don't."
"I'm not saying her name," I reply. "I'm saying the pattern."
"You're reaching."
"I'm afraid," I correct.
He laughs once, humorless. "For me?"
"For her."
That does it.
The air shifts. He steps closer—not aggressively, but deliberately.
"Be careful," he says quietly.
"I am," I reply. "That's why I'm here."
I meet his gaze fully. "You don't get to act like this is still theoretical. You don't circle someone's life this tightly unless you're preparing to own the fallout."
"She's not fragile," he snaps.
"That's not what scares me."
He waits.
"What scares me," I continue, "is that you don't see how much damage you can do to someone who finally believes they're safe."
Silence stretches.
Then he says, "You think I'd hurt her."
"I think," I reply carefully, "that you'll justify it."
That lands harder than anything else.
He turns away, pacing once. Then again.
"You don't understand," he says. "She was already drowning."
"And now you're teaching her to breathe underwater," I counter. "That doesn't mean she won't drown when you let go."
"I'm not letting go."
"That's exactly the problem."
He stops pacing.
Turns slowly.
"What do you want from me, Marcus?"
Honesty. Raw and sharp.
"I want you to walk away," I say. "Before this turns into something you can't undo."
He shakes his head. "It's already past that."
"Yes," I agree quietly. "That's why I'm scared."
I step closer. Lower my voice.
"You don't need to win this," I say. "You don't need proof. You don't need control."
"I need—"
"—to stop," I cut in. "For once."
He looks at me like I've asked him to amputate a limb.
"That's not who I am," he says.
"I know," I reply. "That's why this ends badly."
We stand there, the weight of unspoken things pressing in.
Finally, he says, "You're too late."
I nod.
"I was afraid you'd say that."
I turn to leave.
Behind me, his voice stops me.
"If you interfere—"
"I won't," I say without turning back. "Not because I can't."
I glance over my shoulder.
"But because the only person who can stop this now is you."
He doesn't respond.
And that's how I know.
This is happening.
Whether any of us are ready or not.