Aylia POV
Something is wrong with me.
That's the only explanation that makes sense as I sit across from Xavier Vale and don't feel afraid.
Not fully.
The fear is there—coiled, alert—but it isn't screaming anymore. It's watching. Waiting. Like it doesn't trust me to make the right decision.
And it shouldn't.
We're in the library, tucked into the far corner where the tall shelves swallow sound and the light slants low through narrow windows. The table between us is cluttered with textbooks, notes, a half-finished outline for our science project.
Normal things.
Safe things.
That's what makes this dangerous.
Xavier leans back in his chair, jacket draped neatly over the back, sleeves rolled just enough to show his wrists. His posture is relaxed in a way I've never seen before—not predatory, not looming.
Present.
"You're overthinking it," he says calmly, tapping my notebook with his pen. "The hypothesis is solid. You're just doubting your phrasing."
I blink at him. "You… read it?"
"Twice."
That shouldn't matter.
It does.
I look down at the page, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. Of how quiet it's become around us. Of the fact that he hasn't checked his phone once since we sat down.
"You didn't have to," I say.
"I wanted to."
There it is again.
That strange, gentle pressure. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just… there.
I swallow. "You don't usually want things that don't benefit you."
He tilts his head slightly. "And you think this doesn't?"
"I think," I say carefully, "that you don't do anything without an angle."
Instead of snapping back, he considers me.
"That used to be true," he says.
Used to.
My fingers tighten around my pen. "And now?"
"Now," he replies evenly, "I'm curious what happens when I stop treating everything like a transaction."
My pulse stutters.
That's not a line.
It's too quiet for that.
I force a small laugh. "That sounds… experimental."
"Everything is," he says. "Especially people."
I should shut this down.
I know that.
But there's something about the way he says it—without mockery, without that cold edge—that makes my chest ache in a way I don't recognize.
"You're different today," I say before I can stop myself.
His gaze sharpens, not defensively. Attentively.
"Different how?"
"Less… sharp," I say. "Like you're not waiting for something to break."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "And does that make you uncomfortable?"
"Yes," I answer instantly.
That surprises him.
Good.
"But," I add quietly, "it also makes me wonder if this is the real you."
Silence settles between us.
Not heavy.
Suspended.
"I don't think there is a 'real' version," Xavier says after a moment. "Just adaptations."
I nod slowly. "That makes sense."
"Does it?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "It sounds like something you'd tell yourself so you don't have to feel guilty."
Something flashes in his eyes.
Gone too fast to name.
"Careful," he says softly.
I meet his gaze. "About what?"
"Assuming you understand me."
My heart thumps hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean, then?"
I hesitate.
That's new.
I don't hesitate with people. I either tell them nothing or everything. There's no in-between.
But with him, everything feels… edged.
"I meant," I say slowly, "that it must be exhausting to always be in control."
His pen stills.
"You think I'm in control?"
"I think," I say, choosing my words carefully, "that you're afraid of what happens if you're not."
The quiet sharpens.
For a second, I think I've pushed too far.
Then Xavier leans forward.
Not invading my space. Not retreating either.
Meeting me where I am.
"Why does that matter to you?" he asks.
Because I recognize it.
Because I live that way too.
Because if I stop controlling what people see, they'll notice the cracks.
I open my mouth—
And almost say it.
The thing I never say.
The thing that lives in my chest like a fracture that never healed right.
I know what it's like to lose someone and still have to keep functioning.
The words press against my ribs.
My father's laugh flashes in my mind. His hands rough from work. The way he used to hum while fixing things that couldn't really be fixed.
The way the house felt wrong after.
Empty, but loud with absence.
My throat tightens.
Xavier's eyes don't leave my face.
Not predatory.
Concerned.
"Say it," he murmurs.
The softness in his voice is what nearly breaks me.
I shouldn't.
I know I shouldn't.
But something about this moment—about the way he's looking at me like I matter in a way that isn't performative—makes the truth feel dangerously close to freedom.
"My dad—" I start.
The word hangs between us.
Dad.
Not father. Not him.
Dad.
Xavier goes completely still.
The air shifts.
"What about him?" he asks quietly.
My hands are shaking now. I tuck them under the table, press my nails into my palms until it hurts.
I shouldn't give him this.
Not him.
Anyone but him.
But the words don't care about logic. They want out.
"He died," I say.
There.
It's not the full truth.
But it's enough to crack something open.
Xavier exhales slowly.
"I know," he says.
I blink. "You—what?"
"I know," he repeats. "I didn't know how. But I knew."
That shouldn't make me feel relieved.
It does.
"I don't talk about it," I say. "Ever."
"I can tell."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you hold yourself like someone who learned early that no one's coming to save you."
My breath catches.
That's too accurate.
"That doesn't make me strong," I say quietly.
"No," he agrees. "It makes you tired."
The kindness in his voice is the most dangerous thing he's done to me yet.
My chest tightens painfully.
I want to tell him everything.
About Denver being so far away.
About Casey pretending she's fine when she's not.
About how I work until my body shakes because stopping feels like drowning.
About how I don't let myself get sick because we can't afford it.
About how sometimes I'm so exhausted I feel hollow.
I want to tell him—
That I don't want to be alone anymore.
The words rise.
I almost say them.
Instead, I stand abruptly.
"I should go."
Xavier looks up at me, startled. "We're not done."
"I am," I say, grabbing my bag.
He stands too, slower. Careful.
"You don't have to run," he says.
"I'm not running."
"You are," he replies gently. "You just don't know from what."
I look at him then.
Really look.
And for the first time, I see it.
Not cruelty.
Not arrogance.
Something wounded and dangerous and familiar.
"I almost told you something," I say quietly.
His gaze sharpens. "What?"
"Something I can't take back."
Silence stretches.
"I wouldn't use it against you," he says.
I believe him.
That's the problem.
"That's what scares me," I whisper.
His jaw tightens.
"You think trusting me is a mistake."
"I think," I say softly, "that I don't survive mistakes."
Something dark flickers in his eyes.
Possession.
Not anger.
Something worse.
"I won't let you fall," he says.
The certainty in his voice chills me.
"That's not your choice," I reply.
His lips part like he wants to argue.
Then he stops.
Steps back.
Gives me space.
And that—somehow—that's what finally unravels me.
I leave before I can change my mind.
Before I can give him the rest of the truth.
Before I can let myself believe that kindness from someone like Xavier Vale doesn't always come with a cost.
As I walk away, my chest aching, one thought repeats itself over and over:
If I had said more—
If I had crossed that line—
Nothing would ever be the same again.
And somewhere behind me, I know Xavier is standing still.
Watching.
Remembering every word I didn't say.
And planning what comes next.