Aylia's POV
Something is wrong with Xavier Reyes.
Not wrong in the way people usually mean it — not loud, not volatile, not obvious. Wrong in the way a room feels different after someone rearranges the furniture while you're asleep.
He smiles now.
Not often. Not openly. But enough that it disorients me.
Monday morning, he holds the door open for me.
I stop short, my hand freezing on the strap of my bag. For half a second, I think I've misjudged the angle — that he's holding it for someone else. But the hallway is empty behind me. His gaze is steady, unreadable.
"After you," he says.
Polite. Neutral. Almost… normal.
My skin prickles.
I step through without thanking him, heart beating faster than it should. I expect him to follow too closely, to say something that reminds me who he is. Instead, he lets the door close gently behind us, his footsteps unhurried as he walks beside me like this is ordinary.
Nothing about this is ordinary.
By second period, it's worse.
Science class smells like disinfectant and static electricity. The tables are already cluttered with microscopes and laminated instruction cards when Mr. Halvorsen claps his hands together.
"Alright," he says, cheerful in the way only teachers who enjoy chaos can be. "Final project time. I'll be assigning partners."
My stomach tightens automatically. I don't know why — I've never cared about partners before. I keep my eyes down, flipping my notebook open, pretending I'm not listening.
"Aylia Zehir," he calls.
My pen stills.
"Xavier Reyes."
The room shifts.
It's subtle, but I feel it — the way attention sharpens, the way a few heads turn just enough to confirm what they already suspect. I don't look at him. I don't need to. I can feel his presence like pressure against my shoulder.
"You'll be studying environmental reaction rates," Mr. Halvorsen continues. "Lab work plus a presentation."
I swallow.
After class, I pack my bag quickly, intent on disappearing before Xavier can say anything. I almost make it to the door.
"Zehir."
My name, clipped. Calm.
I stop. Slowly. Turning feels like stepping into cold water.
"Yes?"
"We'll need to coordinate," he says, already standing, already in control of the space between us. "Schedules. Resources."
"I can work at the library," I reply immediately.
"I don't."
That's it. That's all he says. No explanation. No apology.
I lift my chin. "Then we can find somewhere neutral."
His eyes flicker — something like amusement, gone before I can pin it down.
"My house," he says. "Tonight. Six."
My pulse spikes. "That's not neutral."
"No," he agrees. "It's efficient."
"I have work."
"So do I."
"I mean—I work," I clarify. "After school."
He watches me more closely now. "Where?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters if it delays the project."
I hate that he's right. I hate more that I hear myself answer.
"Seven," I say. "I can come after."
"Good," he replies, like the decision was never in question.
And then — this is the part that unnerves me most — he steps back. Gives me space. Lets me leave first.
As if he trusts I'll show up.
Xavier's house is nothing like I expect.
It's not cold. Not sterile. Not looming with glass and steel like something out of a magazine. It's large, yes — set back from the road behind iron gates — but warm light spills from the windows. There's a basketball hoop in the driveway. A wind chime near the porch.
I hesitate before ringing the bell.
The door opens almost immediately.
"Oh — hello," his father says, smiling like he's genuinely pleased to see me. "You must be Aylia."
I blink. "Yes, sir."
"I'm Thomas," he says, shaking my hand. His grip is firm but kind. "Xavier mentioned you."
That alone nearly knocks the air from my lungs.
He waves me inside, takes my coat, asks if I'd like tea or water. The living room smells like lemon cleaner and something warm — bread, maybe.
"You're working on a project together?" he asks casually.
"Yes."
"And you work after school too?" he adds, glancing at my shoes. "Those look like café floors to me."
I stiffen. "I—yeah. I work evenings."
"That's impressive," he says, genuinely. "School and a job. Not easy."
Xavier appears in the doorway then, watching us. He says nothing.
Dinner is already set. I try to decline, but Thomas waves it off.
"Nonsense. You can't work on an empty stomach."
We sit. We eat. And somehow, without meaning to, I talk.
About school. About balancing shifts. About my mother. About how my father died and how everything shifted afterward — how responsibility didn't ask permission, it just arrived.
Thomas listens. Really listens. His eyes soften.
"I grew up like that," he says quietly. "Two jobs before I was eighteen. Parents who worked themselves thin. It teaches you things money never will."
Something tight in my chest loosens.
Then the front door opens.
His mother doesn't smile.
She looks at me like I've tracked mud across something expensive.
"And who is this?" she asks.
"Aylia," Thomas replies. "Xavier's partner."
She hums. "I see."
Her gaze sweeps me once — my clothes, my posture, the way I hold my fork. Judgment sharp and immediate.
"Well," she says coolly, "I hope you're not distracting him."
The warmth drains from the room.
Xavier's jaw tightens. "We're going upstairs," he says.
He doesn't ask me.
In his room, the door clicks shut behind us.
Silence stretches.
"Sit," he says softly.
I do.
He moves closer — not abruptly, not aggressively. He perches on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd me. His voice is lower now.
"You're tense," he observes.
"I'm fine."
"Liar," he murmurs, not unkindly.
His hand brushes mine. Barely. Like an accident.
I freeze.
"I won't touch you unless you want me to," he says.
That's when fear slides in.
Because part of me believes him.
We work. Or at least, we try to. But the air feels heavy. Every movement deliberate. Every look weighted.
When I leave, his mother's eyes follow me like I've stolen something.
Outside, my lungs finally fill.
I don't realize I'm shaking until I'm halfway down the block.
Kindness shouldn't feel like this.
It shouldn't feel like a tightening net.
And yet, as I walk away, I know one thing with terrifying clarity:
Something has shifted.
And whatever it is — it's already wrapped around me.