Something about Xavier changes after that.
Not abruptly. Not in a way I can point to and name.
It's quieter than that.
Like the moment you realize the noise you were bracing against has stopped—and now you're listening too closely for when it will start again.
On Monday, he doesn't appear beside me in the hallway.
On Tuesday, he doesn't intercept my route.
By Wednesday, I've started to notice the absence more than the pressure that used to come with his presence.
And I hate that I notice.
In history, he sits two seats away instead of next to me. He doesn't speak over me. He doesn't glance at me when I answer questions. When the bell rings, he leaves before I do.
It feels… deliberate.
Respectful.
That's the word my mind supplies, unbidden.
I tell myself I'm projecting. That I want this to mean something, so I'm shaping it into something gentle. But the truth is harder to ignore with every hour that passes.
He's still watching.
Just from farther back.
And somehow, that makes it feel safer.
In science class on Thursday, the teacher announces group projects. My shoulders tense automatically. Group work is where things get complicated—where people decide how much space you're allowed to take.
"Partners will be assigned," Mr. Hargreeve says, already flipping through his clipboard. "No switching."
I keep my eyes on my notebook.
"Aylia Zehir," he continues, "you'll be with—"
I already know.
"—Xavier Laurent."
The room shifts.
Not loudly. But I feel it—the attention snapping into place like a held breath.
I look up despite myself.
Xavier doesn't.
He doesn't smirk. Doesn't react at all. Just writes his name at the top of a blank page, calm as if this were inevitable.
After class, I expect him to say something. Anything.
He doesn't.
We walk out together in silence, matching pace without acknowledging it.
"You don't have to—" I start, then stop.
He turns his head slightly. "Have to what?"
"…work with me," I finish.
His brow creases, faintly. "It's a graded project."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know," he says.
We stop near the doors.
"If you'd rather meet at the library," he continues, neutral, "that's fine. Or we can work at my place. It's quieter."
No pressure.
No edge.
Just an option.
My first instinct is to refuse. Habit. Reflex. Self-preservation disguised as independence.
But something inside me hesitates.
"Your place?" I ask.
"Yes."
I wait for the catch.
It doesn't come.
"I have a shift after school tomorrow," I say instead. "I can't stay long."
"That's fine," he replies immediately. "We'll work efficiently."
Efficient.
That word shouldn't feel comforting.
It does.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
The moment the word leaves my mouth, something settles—equal parts relief and unease.
I don't know which one scares me more.
His house is larger than I imagined, but not cold. The driveway curves instead of cutting straight. There are trees instead of hedges. Wind chimes on the side porch.
Normal things.
The door opens before we knock.
"You must be Aylia," his father says warmly, like he's been expecting me. "I'm Henri."
He shakes my hand like I matter.
Not like I'm fragile. Not like I'm a risk.
Like a person.
"Come in," he adds. "Xavier mentioned the project."
I glance at Xavier, startled.
He doesn't look at me.
Inside, the house smells like coffee and wood polish. There are framed photos on the walls—family trips, candid smiles. A younger boy in army fatigues. Another man who looks like Xavier but softer, laughing.
"You work too?" Henri asks casually as we sit at the kitchen counter.
"Yes," I answer, surprised. "At a café."
"On top of school?" he says, impressed. "That's not easy."
"I help my family," I say, instinctively minimizing it.
He nods slowly. "I did the same at your age."
That makes me look up.
"I didn't grow up like this," he adds, gesturing vaguely. "We had just enough. Hard-working parents. Long hours."
Something in his voice is familiar.
Loss, folded neatly into pride.
"My dad died," I say before I can stop myself.
The words don't crack. They just exist.
Henri's expression softens—not pity. Recognition.
"I'm sorry," he says simply.
"So am I," I reply.
It feels good to say it out loud.
When Xavier's mother walks in an hour later, the air changes.
She looks at me once. Brief. Assessing.
"Doctor Laurent," she introduces herself curtly. "I wasn't aware we'd have guests."
"It's for school," Xavier says.
Her gaze flicks to my worn shoes. My bag.
"I see," she replies. "Dinner will be ready in an hour."
She doesn't ask if I'm staying.
I don't plan to.
Upstairs, Xavier's room is immaculate. Minimal. Bed made with hospital corners.
We work quietly at first.
He explains concepts clearly. Doesn't talk down to me. Doesn't hover.
At some point, he sits on the edge of the bed instead of the chair.
I notice.
I don't move away.
"You're good at this," he says, gesturing to my notes.
"I like understanding how things fit together," I admit.
"So do I," he replies.
Our shoulders brush.
Accidental.
Then not.
My heart kicks, once.
He doesn't push.
He waits.
The silence stretches, heavy and electric.
"I should go soon," I say, even though I don't want to.
"I know," he says.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then lowers—resting on the bed instead of my knee.
He chooses restraint.
The realization hits harder than any touch could have.
He could have.
He didn't.
Something inside me tilts.
When I leave, his mother barely looks at me.
Later, I hear raised voices through the door.
I don't catch the words.
Only the tension.
As Xavier walks me out, his jaw is tight.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "About her."
"It's okay," I reply. "Not everyone has to like me."
He stops walking.
Turns to face me fully.
"That's not true," he says.
And for a moment—just one—I almost tell him something I can't take back.
Almost tell him how alone I feel.
Almost tell him how tired I am of being strong.
Almost tell him that tonight felt… safe.
But I don't.
I smile instead.
And walk away believing the most dangerous thing of all:
That he stopped himself.
That he chose kindness.
That whatever this is—
It won't hurt me.