She leaves.
That's how I know something irreversible has happened.
Not because the door closes behind her. Not because her footsteps fade down the path. But because the house feels… wrong without her in it. Like something essential has been removed and the structure hasn't adjusted yet.
I stand at the front window longer than necessary, watching her walk away with her bag hugged to her side, shoulders squared like she's bracing against the world. She doesn't look back.
That shouldn't bother me.
It does.
I replay the evening in fragments—the way she hesitated before sitting on my bed, the way her voice softened when my father spoke to her, the way she almost said something at the door and swallowed it instead.
Almost.
That's the part that lodges under my skin.
She was close.
Close to what, exactly, I don't let myself name. But I felt it. The shift. The thinning of distance. The moment where she wasn't guarding herself against me anymore—just standing there, exposed in a way she didn't seem to realize.
Trust.
The word tastes wrong.
I don't deal in trust. I deal in variables, outcomes, control.
And yet—
She believed me tonight.
Believed the restraint was real. Believed the gentleness wasn't strategic. Believed that when I didn't touch her, it was because I didn't want to cross a line.
I laugh quietly to myself.
Not because it's funny.
Because it's dangerous.
The kitchen lights flick on behind me.
My mother's heels click against the floor—sharp, impatient.
"She's not your type," she says without preamble.
I don't turn.
"She's a distraction," my mother continues. "And not a subtle one."
"She's a student," I reply calmly. "Like me."
"That doesn't make her appropriate."
I face her slowly. "You didn't even speak to her."
"I saw enough," she snaps. "Girls like that don't come into houses like this without expectations."
Something dark stirs.
"She didn't expect anything," I say.
My mother studies me, eyes narrowing. "That's what worries me."
I don't respond.
There's nothing to say that wouldn't escalate this into something I don't want to deal with tonight.
She leaves in a huff.
I lock my bedroom door behind me and lean back against it, exhaling sharply.
My phone buzzes.
Alicia.
Of course.
Alicia:So?
I don't answer.
Alicia:You brought her home.
That gets my attention.
Xavier:It was for school.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Alicia:Did she stay long?
I picture Aylia at my desk, chewing her pen. On my bed, careful not to crease the sheets. At the door, eyes bright with something she didn't know how to hide.
Xavier:Long enough.
The typing bubble pops up immediately.
Alicia:Interesting.
I sit on the edge of my bed, jaw tightening.
Xavier:You're prying.
Alicia:I'm observing. There's a difference.
I don't reply.
Alicia:Did she trust you?
My fingers still.
That question lands too close to the truth.
Xavier:Careful.
Alicia:Oh, Xavier.You don't bring someone into your house unless something has shifted.
I close my eyes.
I should shut this down.
I should end this entire situation before it deepens into something harder to manage.
Instead—
Xavier:She didn't run.
There's a pause this time. A longer one.
Alicia:That's worse.
I frown.
Xavier:Explain.
Her reply comes measured. Deliberate.
Alicia:Because fear keeps people predictable.Hope doesn't.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
She's right.
That's the problem.
Aylia didn't flinch tonight. She didn't brace for impact. She relaxed. Just a little—but enough.
And now the balance is off.
Another message appears.
Alicia:Marcus noticed too.
My jaw tightens further.
Xavier:He's not involved.
Alicia:He thinks you're slipping.
I stand abruptly, pacing.
Xavier:He doesn't understand the scope.
Alicia:Neither did you, she replies.Until tonight.
I stop.
Because she's right again.
Tonight wasn't about proximity or influence or positioning.
Tonight was about access.
And I got it.
Not by force.
By patience.
That realization sends a strange pulse through my chest—not guilt, not pleasure, but something sharp and bright and addictive.
I think of the way Aylia looked at me when I said I knew she was tired.
Like someone had finally noticed.
That look is leverage.
I hate that I recognize it as such.
Alicia:We need to adjust.
Xavier:We're not changing anything.
Alicia:We are.Because now she's vulnerable.
I grip my phone tighter.
Xavier:She's not weak.
Alicia:I didn't say weak.I said open.
Silence stretches.
I imagine Aylia lying in bed right now, replaying the night. Telling herself she overthought it. That maybe—just maybe—Xavier Laurent isn't what everyone says.
That thought twists something in me.
Because I know exactly what everyone says.
And they're not wrong.
Alicia:You can still walk away, she adds.But you won't.
She knows me too well.
I don't reply.
I don't need to.
My phone lights up one last time.
Alicia:Then we formalize soon.
Soon.
The word echoes.
I stare at the ceiling, heart steady, mind racing.
Aylia trusted me tonight.
That was never part of the plan.
But now that I have it—
I don't intend to let it go.
Because trust isn't safety.
It's access.
And I've never wasted an opening.