Aylia POV
Something about Xavier changes the week after everything almost breaks.
I don't notice it all at once. It slips in quietly, like a draft through a window I didn't realize was open. He doesn't crowd my space anymore. Doesn't corner me in hallways or tilt conversations so I'm always reacting instead of choosing.
He becomes… considerate.
That should have been the first warning.
On Monday morning, the bell rings while I'm still sliding into my seat in science. The lab smells like rubbing alcohol and old textbooks. My backpack thuds against the leg of the desk as I shrug it off, already bracing myself for the usual—his presence, his eyes, the weight of him even when he's silent.
But Xavier doesn't look at me.
He's across the room, leaning against a counter, sleeves rolled up, speaking quietly to the teacher. When he laughs—soft, brief—it sounds… normal. Human.
The teacher claps her hands for attention."Partners for the term project," she announces. "Names will be on the board."
My stomach tightens anyway.
I watch the marker move, letters forming in quick strokes.
Aylia ZehirXavier Hale
The room hums. A few whispers. Someone lets out a low, impressed whistle.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
For a heartbeat too long, we just stare at the board like it's made a mistake. Then Xavier finally looks at me—not sharp, not predatory. Just… steady.
"As long as you don't blow anything up," he says mildly, "I think we'll survive."
It's almost a joke.
Almost.
I blink, caught off guard. "I've never blown anything up."
"Yet," he says, lips twitching. "There's time."
I wait for the edge. The control. The pressure.
It doesn't come.
We work in silence for most of the class, dividing tasks without argument. He lets me choose first. When our hands brush reaching for the same notebook, he pulls back immediately.
"I've got it," he says. "Sorry."
Sorry.
That word sticks with me longer than it should.
At the end of class, he gathers his things and pauses beside my desk. "My place is quieter," he says, like it's the most logical conclusion in the world. "If you want to work there."
I hesitate. Every instinct I own flares.
"I can't—" I start.
"No pressure," he adds calmly. "Library's fine too. Or wherever you're comfortable."
Comfortable.
I don't know why that's the word that tips me.
"…Okay," I say. "Your place."
His eyes soften—not victorious. Relieved.
That should have scared me more than anything else.
His house is nothing like I expect.
It's warm. Lived-in. The kind of place where the floors creak and the air smells faintly like coffee and lemon cleaner. There are framed photos lining the hallway—soccer games, birthdays, a younger Xavier with scraped knees and an awkward grin.
His dad answers the door.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with tired eyes that brighten when he sees me. "You must be Aylia," he says, extending a hand. "I'm Daniel."
I shake it, surprised by the firmness, the warmth. "Hi. Thank you for letting me come over."
"Please," he says. "Any friend of Xavier's is welcome."
Friend.
Xavier doesn't correct him.
We settle at the kitchen table first, spreading out textbooks and notes. His dad lingers, pretending to fuss with the coffee machine while asking questions that feel… genuine.
"What are you studying?""How long have you known each other?""You balancing school with work too?"
That one makes me pause.
"I—yeah," I admit. "I have a job after classes. And weekends."
Daniel nods slowly, understanding settling into his expression. "That's not easy."
"No," I say quietly. "But it helps."
"Family?" he asks gently.
"My mom," I say. "And my aunt. My dad passed a few years ago."
The words usually catch in my throat.
This time, they don't.
"I'm sorry," he says, and I believe him.
He tells me about growing up poor. About working nights and studying during lunch breaks. About parents who worked themselves thin just to keep the lights on.
Something in my chest loosens.
Xavier watches the exchange silently, something unreadable passing through his gaze.
The front door opens not long after.
His mother steps in, heels clicking sharply against the tile. Her eyes flick to me, assess, dismiss.
"Oh," she says. "You have company."
"Yes," Daniel replies easily. "This is Aylia."
Her smile is tight. "I see."
She doesn't ask my name again.
Her attention slides to Xavier. "I hope this isn't distracting you from your priorities."
His jaw tightens. "It's for school."
"Hm," she hums, already turning away. "Try not to make a habit of it."
The air shifts. The warmth fades.
I gather my things quickly. "We'll just go upstairs," I say, eager to escape the tension.
Xavier leads the way without a word.
His room is neat, controlled. Bed made perfectly. Desk organized down to the angle of the pens. It smells faintly like clean laundry and something darker underneath—wood, maybe.
We work.
At first.
Notes turn into conversation. Conversation into silence. The kind that hums instead of suffocates.
He sits on the edge of the bed while I'm at the desk, then switches places without comment when my back starts to ache.
"Here," he says, guiding me gently. "You'll be more comfortable."
His hand lingers on my wrist for half a second too long.
Not grabbing.
Just… present.
"You don't have to," I say softly.
"I know," he replies. "I want to."
My pulse stutters.
He leans closer, voice low. "You don't flinch anymore."
I don't realize it's true until he says it.
"I guess I trust you," I murmur before I can stop myself.
The room stills.
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't move closer.
He just looks at me, something careful and intense crossing his face.
"You shouldn't give that lightly," he says.
"I don't," I say. "That's why it matters."
For a moment, I think he might touch me. Kiss me. Say something that changes everything.
Instead, he nods once. "Then I won't waste it."
That feels like a promise.
I leave an hour later, lighter than I've felt in weeks.
His mother's voice carries from downstairs as I step out—sharp, critical. I catch my name once, paired with something disapproving.
Xavier doesn't walk me to the door.
Later, I'll learn he locked himself in his room.
That his father tried to talk to him.
That the door stayed closed.
But I don't know any of that yet.
All I know is the warmth in my chest as I walk home. The dangerous thought curling in my mind.
Maybe I was wrong about him.
Maybe the things I feared were just defenses.
Maybe kindness can be real.
I don't know yet that gentleness can be the sharpest blade of all.
And that I've just handed him the handle.