Aylia's POV
The change doesn't come loudly.
There's no apology. No explanation. No dramatic shift I can point to and say this is where it turned.
It's worse than that.
Xavier Atlas becomes… kind.
Not warm. Not soft.
Controlled kindness. Intentional. The kind that feels practiced, like he measured every word before releasing it into the air between us.
On Monday morning, he doesn't block my path.
He falls into step beside me.
"Good morning, Aylia," he says calmly.
I stop walking.
That's my first mistake.
Students stream around us, lockers slamming, laughter echoing, the normal chaos of school continuing like nothing is wrong—like something isn't tightening invisibly around my ribs.
"I don't owe you politeness," I say.
"No," he agrees. "But I'm offering it anyway."
That unsettles me more than his silence ever did.
I start walking again. He doesn't rush. Doesn't crowd. He matches my pace like it's instinct.
"You didn't sleep well," he says.
I stiffen. "You don't know that."
"Your steps are uneven," he replies. "And you missed breakfast."
I stop again, anger flaring sharp and sudden. "Stop observing me like I'm a project."
He turns toward me fully now. His expression isn't smug. It isn't cruel.
It's… focused.
"You are a project," he says evenly. "Everything is, if it's unfinished."
I laugh once, brittle. "That's the most arrogant thing you've ever said."
"Possibly," he admits. "But it doesn't make it untrue."
I leave him there.
This time, he doesn't follow.
That should feel like relief.
It doesn't.
In science, the teacher announces group assignments without ceremony.
"Xavier Atlas and Aylia Zehir."
The room shifts.
I feel it immediately—the looks, the quiet recalibration of attention. The way people straighten like they're about to witness something important.
I raise my hand. "Can I—"
"No changes," the teacher says briskly. "Take it up after class."
Xavier doesn't look at me.
He doesn't smile.
He just slides his notebook across the table between us.
"I already outlined a structure," he says quietly. "We can adjust it if you want."
I stare at the page.
It's meticulous. Efficient. Clean.
Too clean.
"You did this before we were paired," I say.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because statistically, we would be," he replies. "You're ranked near the top. So am I."
"That's not—"
"—romantic?" he finishes. "Correct."
I swallow. "You don't get to decide things for me."
"No," he says calmly. "But I can remove obstacles."
He writes my name at the top of the page.
Beside his.
Something in my chest tightens—not fear, not anger.
Confusion.
At lunch, he doesn't sit with me.
He sits nearby.
Close enough to notice when my hands shake slightly as I unwrap my sandwich. Far enough to give me space.
People stop whispering when he's near.
That's new.
I hate that part of me is grateful.
Marcus approaches my table halfway through.
He hesitates, like he's deciding whether to interfere or observe.
"Hey," he says gently. "You okay?"
I nod. "Why?"
He glances toward Xavier.
Xavier meets his gaze.
The look that passes between them is brief—and loaded.
"Just… be careful," Marcus says quietly.
"With what?" I ask.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
"Never mind," he says, already stepping away.
That's when the dread creeps in.
Not because of Xavier.
Because of Marcus's fear.
By Thursday, the kindness sharpens.
Xavier stops correcting me publicly. He asks questions instead.
He doesn't walk beside me anymore.
He opens doors.
He doesn't speak over me.
He listens.
And it works.
Teachers soften. Students hesitate before being cruel. Even Alicia keeps her distance—watching from across rooms like she's reassessing something.
"You're manipulating them," I accuse Xavier after chemistry.
"I'm redirecting them," he replies. "There's a difference."
"Why?" I ask. "Why now?"
He studies me for a long moment.
"Because pressure alone breaks people," he says. "And I don't want you broken."
My heart stutters.
That's not what I expect.
That's not what he's been doing.
"You don't get to decide what breaks me," I whisper.
"No," he says softly. "But I get to decide what doesn't."
That night, I replay the words until they lose shape.
Until they almost sound like care.
On Friday, Marcus corners me instead of Xavier.
"This isn't right," he says quietly near the lockers. "Whatever he's doing—it's not help."
"He hasn't hurt me," I say.
"That's not the metric," Marcus snaps. Then softer: "You don't see it yet."
"See what?"
He looks torn.
"Xavier doesn't change without cause," he says. "And kindness isn't his default."
I hesitate. "People can change."
Marcus's laugh is sharp. "Not like this."
"What are you saying?" I ask.
"That whatever he's offering comes with a cost."
The bell rings.
Marcus grips my arm briefly. "If he asks for anything—anything—don't agree before you talk to me."
I nod, unsettled.
I wish I hadn't.
He asks after school.
Not for something.
For time.
"We should work on the project," Xavier says. "Somewhere quiet."
"I can do the library," I reply quickly.
"My place is closer," he says. "And better equipped."
I hesitate.
"I won't pressure you," he adds immediately. "If you'd rather not—"
"I'll come," I say.
The words surprise both of us.
His expression doesn't change.
But something behind his eyes does.
His house is enormous.
Not loud. Not showy.
Controlled luxury. Marble floors. High ceilings. Silence that feels curated.
His father greets me first.
Warm. Curious. Real.
"You must be Aylia," he says, offering his hand. "Xavier's mentioned you."
My stomach drops. "He has?"
"Only your work ethic," his father says, smiling. "Which I respect."
We talk in the kitchen while Xavier sets things up upstairs.
His father asks about school. About work.
"You have another job?" he asks gently.
"Yes," I admit. "Two, actually."
He nods slowly. "I remember that kind of tired."
Something in his voice cracks something open.
"My dad passed," I say quietly. "A few years ago."
His expression softens instantly. "I'm sorry."
We stand there, two people bonded by absence.
When Xavier returns, something about him has shifted.
He sees it.
He hates it.
Upstairs, in his room, the air changes again.
Closer. Quieter.
He sits beside me on the bed—not touching. Close enough to feel warmth.
"You don't have to stay long," he says gently.
I nod.
We work.
He praises my ideas. Builds on them. Lets me lead.
When he leans closer, my breath catches.
"Relax," he murmurs. "I won't cross a line you don't invite me to."
That should scare me.
Instead, it makes me trust him.
When I leave, his mother arrives.
She doesn't smile.
She barely looks at me.
"Be careful who you bring into this house," she says coolly.
Xavier's jaw tightens.
After I'm gone, I hear her voice rise.
Criticism. Judgment.
Xavier slams his door.
Locks it.
His father stands outside, knocking once.
"Son—"
"Not now."
And for the first time, I'm glad I'm not there.
Because whatever kindness Xavier showed me today—
It came at a cost.
And I don't know yet who's going to pay it.
But I know this:
For the first time since he entered my life…
I almost believe him.
And that terrifies me more than anything else he's done.