Aylia POV
Something settles after that week.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
It slips into place the way dust does—quiet, invisible, everywhere. And by the time I notice it, it's already in my lungs.
Xavier doesn't disappear.
That's what I expect. That's what my body braces for—withdrawal, punishment, cold silence.
Instead, he softens.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to comment on.
Just enough to confuse me.
He stops intercepting my path. Stops predicting my movements aloud. He still appears—often—but no longer like he's waiting for me to make a mistake.
Now it feels like he's giving me space.
Which should be a relief.
It isn't.
On Monday morning, he holds the door for me.
Not performative. Not smug.
Just… there.
"Morning," he says.
I hesitate before answering. "Morning."
He doesn't watch me walk away.
That unsettles me more than when he did.
In history, he doesn't sit beside me. He takes the seat one row ahead, diagonal enough that I can see his shoulder when I look up, but not close enough to feel trapped.
The absence presses harder than his presence ever did.
I catch myself glancing at him anyway.
That realization makes my stomach twist.
During lunch, he passes our table and sets a napkin down in front of me without comment. My fork had fallen earlier. I hadn't replaced it.
"Thanks," I murmur, unsure why my voice sounds quieter than usual.
He nods once and keeps walking.
No audience. No smirk.
I stare at the napkin like it's evidence of something I don't understand.
By Wednesday, the confusion has roots.
He starts asking questions.
Small ones. Controlled ones.
"How late do you work this week?""Did you finish the reading?""You look tired—long shift?"
Not intrusive.
Observant.
And I hate myself for answering.
"Thursday's late," I say."Yeah, mostly.""Just busy."
He doesn't push.
That's the dangerous part.
In science, our teacher clears her throat and reads names off the list. "Zehir. Xavier. You'll be working together."
My pulse spikes.
I open my mouth to object.
Xavier doesn't look at me. Doesn't smile. Just nods once.
"Understood."
Like it was always going to happen.
When class ends, I pack quickly, already rehearsing my refusal.
"I'll handle the outline," I say before he can speak. "You can do the—"
"Come over," he interrupts calmly.
I blink. "What?"
"My house," he clarifies. "Saturday. It's easier to work without interruptions."
I shake my head. "I don't—"
"You work evenings," he says. "Weekends too, sometimes."
My breath catches.
He watches my reaction carefully, like he's calibrating something.
"I'm not trying to corner you," he adds. "Say no if you want."
That's new.
Real choice.
It disarms me.
"I… Saturday afternoon," I say finally. "For a few hours."
"Good," he replies simply. "I'll text the address."
I walk away before I can rethink it.
That night, I lie awake staring at my ceiling, replaying the exchange until it loses meaning. He didn't pressure me. Didn't insist.
He offered.
That matters.
Doesn't it?
Saturday comes too quickly.
His house is larger than I expect—not ostentatious, but imposing in a quiet way. Clean lines. Tall windows. The kind of place that doesn't need to prove anything.
Xavier opens the door himself.
"You found it," he says.
I nod, suddenly hyperaware of my shoes, my jacket, the faint smell of cleaning solution that never quite leaves my clothes.
Inside, everything is still.
A man's voice carries from somewhere deeper in the house. "That must be her."
Xavier stiffens.
Before I can react, his father appears—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp but kind.
"You must be Aylia," he says warmly. "I've heard about you."
My throat tightens. "Oh. Um. Hi."
He smiles, genuine. "Come in. You're right on time."
We sit at the kitchen table while Xavier grabs his laptop. His father asks me about school. About my classes. About work.
"You work as well?" he asks, surprised but not judgmental.
"Yes," I reply. "At a café. And weekends I clean offices."
"That's a lot," he says quietly.
I shrug. "It helps."
He studies me for a moment. "Your father—he passed, didn't he?"
The question is gentle. Careful.
"Yes," I say. "A few years ago."
He nods slowly. "I'm sorry. Loss teaches responsibility too early."
Something in his voice cracks open something in me.
We talk longer than I expect. About balance. About school. About working young. He tells me he used to do deliveries before dawn, clean shops after class.
"When you don't have the luxury of safety," he says, "you learn to be disciplined."
I swallow hard.
Xavier watches us from the doorway.
Unreadable.
Then the front door opens.
His mother's presence shifts the air instantly.
She barely glances at me. "Who's this?"
"Aylia," his father says. "She's here for a project."
Her eyes flick over me. Assessing. Dismissing.
"Don't stay late," she says to Xavier, already walking away. "And make sure she doesn't distract you."
Heat floods my face.
"I won't," I say quickly.
She doesn't acknowledge me.
Upstairs, Xavier closes his bedroom door softly.
"I'm sorry," he says. "She's… direct."
"It's fine," I lie.
We work for a while. Actual work. Notes. Diagrams. Quiet focus.
Then he shifts closer. Not touching. Just near.
"You don't have to rush," he says. "You're safe here."
The word lands strangely.
Safe.
He smiles—not sharp. Not controlled.
Gentle.
It makes my chest ache.
When he leans back on the bed, gesturing for me to sit, something inside me hesitates. Then I do.
We talk.
Not about school.
About pressure. Expectations. Feeling watched.
"You carry everything alone," he says softly.
I nod before I realize I am.
"I don't mind," I whisper.
"That's what people say when they don't think they're allowed to want help."
Something in my throat tightens dangerously.
I almost tell him.
About the nights I come home shaking. About how tired I am of being strong. About how sometimes I wish someone would decide things for me.
The words hover.
Then I remember his mother's eyes.
I stand abruptly. "I should go."
He doesn't stop me.
At the door, he says, "You can trust me, Aylia."
I nod.
I want to believe him.
At home that night, the silence feels heavier.
Not because I'm afraid.
Because part of me feels… held.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
Because somewhere deep down, something whispers—
This kindness isn't accidental.
And whatever it's leading toward—
I'm already walking into it.