Xavier POV
She almost told me.
I know the exact second it nearly happened—the way her shoulders dropped half an inch, like she'd forgotten to brace. The way her voice shifted, softer, thinner, like it had slipped out of its armor. The way my name didn't sound like a challenge when she said it.
People don't notice moments like that unless they're waiting for them.
I was.
The library still smells like old paper and dust when I leave it, but the air feels different now. Charged. Alive. Like something important passed through and didn't quite land.
Aylia walked away too fast.
That's how I know she felt it too.
She didn't look back. Didn't hesitate. Didn't apologize for leaving the conversation unfinished. That restraint—that discipline—tells me more than any confession ever could.
Most people fall forward when they're vulnerable.
Aylia retreats.
Which means what she almost gave me wasn't small.
I replay the moment again as I cross the courtyard, hands in my pockets, expression neutral. Anyone watching would think I'm calm. Collected. Unbothered.
That's the illusion.
Inside, something is sharpening.
"My dad—"
That was it. That was the fracture line.
She didn't say father. She didn't say he. She said dad like the word itself still carried warmth, still hurt to hold.
And then she stopped herself.
People don't stop mid-truth unless the truth has weight.
I open my car door and sit there longer than necessary, staring straight ahead, replaying her face when she realized how close she was to saying too much.
Fear, yes.
But also relief.
Relief that someone was listening.
That someone noticed.
That someone didn't turn her pain into spectacle.
I didn't push.
That was the right move.
Marcus would say restraint is uncharacteristic of me. He'd say I should've pressed harder, cornered the moment, forced the opening wider.
Marcus is wrong.
You don't break something like Aylia.
You let it believe it's safe enough to open on its own.
She thinks she walked away in time.
She thinks she protected herself.
What she doesn't realize is that the almost-confession matters more than the full one ever could.
It tells me exactly where the wound is.
And exactly how deep.
I drive home without music, without distraction. My mind stays anchored to one truth: Aylia doesn't trust easily—but she wants to.
That's the crack.
At home, the house is quieter than usual. My mother isn't back yet. My father's voice drifts faintly from his office, low and steady, probably on the phone.
I don't announce myself. I go straight upstairs and shut my door.
Lock it.
I sit on the edge of my bed and lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped.
I should feel victorious.
I don't.
What I feel is something far more dangerous.
Protective.
When she said, I don't survive mistakes, something in me hardened instantly—not against her, but against everything else. Against the idea of anyone else being close enough to hurt her. Against the possibility that someone might take what she gives and treat it carelessly.
That instinct surprises me.
I don't protect people.
I possess them.
This is different.
This feels like territory I don't want contaminated.
I picture her hands trembling under the table. The way she stood up too quickly, like staying another second would've undone her completely.
She trusted me not to follow.
She trusted me not to grab her wrist, not to demand more.
That trust is fragile.
And it's mine now.
A knock comes at my door.
"Xavier," my father says. "You home?"
I don't answer.
He knocks again, softer. "I met Aylia today."
That gets my attention.
I stand and open the door halfway. "And?"
He studies my face like he's looking for something specific. "She's impressive."
That word again.
"She works two jobs," he continues. "Helps her family. Still manages school. Reminds me of myself, actually."
I stiffen. "She didn't tell you that."
"No," he says. "But she didn't have to."
I close the door slowly after he leaves.
Of course my father sees it.
He always recognizes hunger.
I sit back down, jaw tight.
My mother won't.
She never does.
Later that night, when she criticizes Aylia—calls her too quiet, too plain, not the right type—something in me snaps so violently I barely recognize myself.
I leave the room before I say something unforgivable.
I lock my door again.
This time, when my father tries to knock, I don't answer.
I don't want advice.
I don't want warnings.
What I want is clarity.
Aylia almost trusted me.
Which means the next step matters more than any before it.
I won't rush her.
I won't corner her.
I'll be consistent.
Gentle.
Present.
And when she finally crosses that line—when she tells me the thing she thinks will break her—
I will make sure she never regrets choosing me.
Not because I'm kind.
But because mercy, when given deliberately, creates loyalty deeper than fear ever could.
Alicia POV — Tightening the Bet
I feel it before I hear about it.
That's the thing about shifts like this—they ripple outward. Quiet. Invisible. But unmistakable if you know what you're listening for.
Xavier Vale doesn't linger.
He doesn't hesitate.
He doesn't let things sit unresolved.
So when I hear that he didn't follow her, didn't press, didn't push—that he let her walk away—
I know.
The game has changed.
I'm in my room when Marcus calls. His voice is tight, clipped in that way it gets when he knows something's wrong but hasn't fully named it yet.
"She almost told him," he says.
I smile slowly.
"Almost what?" I ask.
"The thing," he snaps. "The big thing. The one she doesn't talk about."
"That's adorable," I say lightly. "You sound worried."
"I am," Marcus replies. "This isn't how it's supposed to go."
I walk to the mirror and study my reflection. Perfect hair. Perfect posture. Perfect calm.
"That's exactly how it's supposed to go," I correct. "You don't catch prey by sprinting. You let it believe it's safe."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Of course I am."
I hang up without waiting for his response.
Then I text Xavier.
She almost trusted you.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
I know.
That answer confirms everything.
I sit on the edge of my bed and tap my phone thoughtfully.
Xavier has always played hard. Aggressive. Decisive. He likes clean wins.
This—this patience—is new.
Which means he's invested.
Which means the bet needs tightening.
I scroll back to the original terms.
Get her to choose you.
Break her away from the rest.
Make it irreversible.
At the time, it was sport.
Now?
Now it's something else.
I type slowly.
We lock it tonight. No more flexibility. No pauses. No conscience clauses.
This time, he takes longer to respond.
Good.
When the reply finally comes, it's short.
What changes?
I smile wider.
If she gives you something real, I type, you don't get to stop halfway.
Another pause.
I picture him staring at the screen, jaw tight, weighing control against consequence.
Finally:
Define "real."
I don't hesitate.
A confession. A choice. A moment she can't undo.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
And if she breaks?
I tilt my head, considering.
Then she learns the cost of trusting the wrong person.
The dots blink again.
Then stop.
When he finally responds, it's with a single word.
Fine.
I lock my phone and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The bet is sealed now.
No more almosts.
No more hovering at the edge of truth.
Aylia doesn't know it yet, but the moment she hesitated—the moment she almost told him—
She crossed the line.
And Xavier?
Xavier is already deciding what kind of mercy he's willing to give.
Which means the next time she opens her mouth—
Something will break.
And this time?
No one will stop it.