Aylia POV
I don't sleep that night.
Not because of nightmares. Not because of panic.
Because my brain won't stop rearranging moments—testing them, replaying them, trying to understand why something that should feel wrong… doesn't.
Xavier didn't touch me.
That's the part that keeps circling back.
He could have. There were moments where the space between us felt deliberate, charged. Where I was aware of his presence in a way that made my skin hum—not fear, not attraction exactly, but awareness. Like standing too close to a fire and realizing you aren't burning.
And still, he didn't.
When I got home, Casey was already asleep, curled around one of Denver's old hoodies like she'd stolen it on purpose. Mom's bedroom light was off. The house was quiet in the way it gets when everyone is too tired to speak.
I stood in the kitchen longer than necessary, staring at the counter, my bag still hanging from my shoulder.
I felt… unsettled.
Not shaken.
Not hurt.
Unsettled.
Like the ground had shifted a few inches to the left and I hadn't recalibrated yet.
Xavier's father's voice echoed faintly in my head—warm, genuine, curious in a way that didn't feel invasive. He'd asked about my work, about school, about what I wanted to do after graduation like it mattered. Like the answer wasn't already predetermined by survival.
When I mentioned my second job—cleaning offices on weekends—he hadn't pitied me.
He'd nodded.
"Hard work teaches you things privilege never will," he'd said. "Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."
No one had ever said that to me before.
Especially not someone who lived in a house like that.
And then there was Xavier's mother.
Cold. Dismissive. Her eyes scanning me like she was already unimpressed by a version of me she'd invented.
I understood her instantly.
She was the kind of woman who believed softness was a liability.
The irony almost made me laugh.
I change clothes slowly, like if I move too fast I'll shake the feeling loose and lose it entirely. When I lie down, I stare at the ceiling, replaying the moment at the door.
I almost told him.
That's what scares me most.
I don't even know what I was going to say—just that it hovered on the edge of my tongue, heavy and unformed. Something about being tired. About not wanting to fight anymore. About how it feels to always be bracing for impact.
I turn onto my side and close my eyes.
Don't romanticize it, I tell myself.
Don't be stupid.
Still, my chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.
School feels different the next morning.
Not the building. Not the people.
Me.
I notice Xavier before he notices me—or maybe I notice that he doesn't pretend not to see me anymore.
In science, the teacher clears her throat and starts reading off names for the semester project.
"Zehir. Laurent."
My pen slips from my fingers.
I hear a few murmurs. Feel the weight of attention press down like humidity.
I don't look at him.
Not until he says quietly, "Looks like we're efficient together."
I swallow. "Looks like we don't have a choice."
He glances at me then, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You always have a choice."
That sounds like a challenge.
We don't speak much during class. Just trade notes. Quiet coordination. He doesn't dominate the space. Doesn't correct me. Lets me lead the outline when I start talking.
That shouldn't matter.
It does.
When the bell rings, I pack up quickly.
"Come by my place again," he says casually, like he's asking about the weather. "We'll finish the data analysis."
I hesitate.
Every instinct I have says pause.
Another voice—quieter, newer—says you were fine last time.
"I work tonight," I say. "And tomorrow."
"Then Saturday," he replies easily. "I'll work around you."
That stops me.
No one ever does that.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
The word feels irreversible.
By Friday, the whispers have changed.
They aren't sharp anymore. They're curious. Confused.
"Is she dating him?""No way.""Then why is he always with her?"
I feel… protected.
The realization makes me uneasy.
But I can't deny the difference. Alicia hasn't approached me all week. No one's touched my locker. Teachers look less suspicious, more neutral.
Xavier walks beside me sometimes—not too close, not possessive. Just present.
Marcus watches us from a distance.
His expression isn't hostile.
It's worried.
That should warn me.
Instead, it makes me defensive.
Saturday comes too fast.
I tell my mom I'm working on a project. She nods, distracted, already thinking about bills. Casey asks if I'll be home for dinner. I say maybe.
Xavier's house feels different in daylight—less intimidating, more human. His father greets me again, offers tea, asks about my classes like he remembers my answers.
I find myself talking too much.
About Denver. About Australia. About how strange it feels to miss someone who isn't gone forever.
Xavier listens without interrupting.
That's new too.
When we go upstairs, the room feels smaller this time. More intimate. He sits on the floor with his laptop, back against the bed, and gestures for me to join him.
I do.
Our knees brush.
I don't move away.
We work for a while. Real work. Comfortable silence.
At some point, he reaches for a book behind me and his hand brushes my arm.
The contact is light.
Intentional.
I freeze.
He stills immediately.
"Sorry," he says quietly. "I should've asked."
My breath catches.
It shouldn't matter.
It does.
"It's fine," I say, and mean it.
He studies my face for a second longer than necessary.
"Aylia," he says, voice lower now. "You don't have to be fine all the time."
Something in me fractures.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to let something leak through.
"I know," I whisper.
That's it.
That's all I say.
But it feels like a confession anyway.
When I leave, his mother is home again. She barely looks at me. Says nothing. The silence feels intentional.
Outside, the air is cool.
Xavier walks me to the gate.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
"I'm glad you came," he says finally.
"So am I," I reply.
And I don't know why that feels like a mistake until I'm already halfway home.
That night, Marcus texts me.
Marcus:Be careful.
I stare at the screen.
Me:About what?
The dots appear. Disappear.
Marcus:People don't change because they're kind.They change because they want something.
I don't respond.
Because the thought terrifies me.
Because a part of me—the most dangerous part—wants to believe Xavier wants me.
Not to control.
Not to win.
Just… me.
And I fall asleep holding onto that belief like it might keep me warm.
Not knowing it's the coldest thing in the room.