Xavier POV
Born without ceremony
The problem with control is that it attracts spectators.
I notice them before I acknowledge them — the way people linger now when Aylia and I occupy the same space. The way conversations stall when I enter rooms she's already in. The way teachers look to me before deciding anything involving her.
Influence is efficient like that.
It builds itself.
By Friday afternoon, I'm no longer chasing proximity.
Proximity is assumed.
Aylia sits at the far table in the library, spine straight, book open but unread. I can tell by the way her fingers rest too stiffly on the page. She hasn't turned it in several minutes.
I take the seat across from her.
Not beside.
Across.
She looks up immediately.
"You're blocking the light," she says.
"You're not reading."
Her jaw tightens. "Then why are you here?"
"To see how long you'd pretend."
She closes the book carefully. Deliberately. Like she's managing her temper one breath at a time.
"I don't know what game you think you're playing," she says, "but I'm not participating."
That word again.
Game.
I tilt my head. "You already are."
Her eyes flicker — not fear, not yet. Calculation.
"I want you to stop orbiting me," she says quietly. "People are starting to notice."
"They noticed weeks ago."
"That's not what I mean," she snaps, then reins it in. "This is changing things."
"Yes," I say. "It is."
"And you're fine with that?"
"I don't do things I'm not fine with."
She laughs once — sharp, humorless. "That must be nice."
I don't respond.
Because the truth — that this isn't nice, that it's necessary — would complicate things.
She gathers her bag. "Move."
I don't.
She hesitates, then steps around the table instead, brushing past me with deliberate distance.
That distance irritates me more than contact ever would.
As she leaves, I realize something I don't like:
If I don't formalize this soon, someone else will.
Aylia POV
(The trap without a name)
By the time Friday ends, I feel hollowed out.
Not tired.
Not scared.
Just… thinned.
Like too much of me has been stretched across too many moments.
Xavier never touches me. Never raises his voice. Never corners me in ways that would justify reaction.
Instead, he positions himself.
Near enough that silence becomes pressure.
By the time I clock out of the café, my hands ache from clenching them all day.
The street outside is cold, neon reflections blurring on wet pavement. I'm halfway to the bus stop when I feel it again — that awareness, that subtle pull between my shoulder blades.
I don't turn right away.
I refuse to give him that.
But when I do, he's across the street, leaning casually against his car, phone in hand like this is coincidence.
Like this isn't deliberate.
I stop.
"So this is what you do now?" I call across the street. "Just… appear?"
He looks up slowly.
"You work late."
"That's not an answer."
He crosses the street without rushing, hands in his pockets.
"You look exhausted," he says.
I laugh bitterly. "You don't get to comment on my body."
"That's not what I did."
"Yes, it is."
He studies me for a moment too long.
"Get in," he says, nodding toward the car.
"No."
"I wasn't asking."
I step back. "I don't owe you anything."
"No," he agrees. "But you owe yourself rest."
The audacity of it almost makes me shake.
"I don't need your concern."
"Everyone needs something," he replies calmly. "You just pretend you don't."
I feel it then — the invisible narrowing. The way this conversation has edges I can't see.
"I don't like this," I say quietly.
His gaze sharpens. "Good."
That stops me cold.
"You shouldn't," he continues. "Comfort makes people careless."
"Why are you doing this?" I ask.
For a second — just a second — something almost human flickers in his eyes.
Then it's gone.
"Because if I don't," he says, "someone else will. And they won't be as patient."
That terrifies me more than a threat ever could.
I step back again. "I want this to end."
His voice drops. "It will."
"When?"
He doesn't answer.
That night, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling long after Casey falls asleep.
Something is happening.
Not to me.
Around me.
And whatever it is — it already knows my name.
Alicia POV - Formalizing the inevitable
Xavier thinks he's still choosing.
That's the funniest part.
I sit on the edge of Camille's bed, tapping my nails against my phone while the boys argue downstairs about something irrelevant. They always do.
"Have you noticed," Camille says, filing her nails, "that he hasn't denied it once?"
"Denied what?"
"That he cares."
I smile. "Because he doesn't think that's the conversation."
"So what is?"
"Ownership," I say simply.
Later that night, I slide into the booth across from Xavier at the private lounge. He doesn't look surprised to see me.
That tells me everything.
"You're late," he says.
"I wanted to see how far you'd go without structure."
"And?" he asks coolly.
"I'm impressed," I admit. "And concerned."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Pick one."
"You're attracting attention," I say. "The wrong kind."
He leans back. "That's manageable."
"So is denial," I reply. "Until it isn't."
I slide my phone across the table.
On the screen: photos. Harmless on their own. Together, suggestive.
Him beside her.
Him watching her.
Her walking past him, jaw tight.
"People are building narratives," I say softly. "We should give them one."
He doesn't look at the phone. "I'm not turning this into entertainment."
"No," I agree. "You're turning it into leverage."
He finally meets my gaze. "Careful."
"I am," I say. "That's why I'm here."
Silence stretches.
"This ends with you either exposed," I continue, "or untouchable. There's no middle ground anymore."
"And your solution?" he asks.
I smile. "We formalize it."
"Formalize what?"
"This," I gesture vaguely. "Your interest."
"I don't—"
"—need to call it that," I finish. "We call it a test."
Marcus's words echo faintly in his posture. Hesitation disguised as restraint.
"A bet," I say gently.
His jaw tightens. "I don't gamble."
"You already are," I reply. "You just hate acknowledging the stake."
"And what exactly is the wager?" he asks.
I lean forward.
"You pursue her openly," I say. "No coercion. No force. Clean. Controlled."
"And when she falls?" he asks coldly.
"When she falls," I say, "you walk away."
The silence is deafening.
"And if she doesn't?" he asks.
"Then you prove this was never about control," I reply. "And I step back."
That catches his attention.
"You?" he asks. "Step back?"
"Yes," I say. "From interfering. From accelerating. From shaping the narrative."
He studies me for a long moment.
"You're confident," he says.
"I'm strategic," I correct. "And I know people."
"And what do you get out of this?" he asks.
I smile wider. "Clarity."
He exhales slowly.
"I'm not agreeing," he says.
"I know," I reply, standing. "You don't need to. Not yet."
As I walk away, I add lightly, "But you will."
Because the bet isn't about winning.
It's about forcing him to choose an ending.
Xavier POV - After the terms exist
That night, I can't sleep.
Not because of guilt.
Because of precision.
Alicia is right about one thing: this needs structure.
And if I'm going to finish this — end it cleanly — I need parameters.
Across the city, Aylia is unaware that her life has just been folded into an agreement she didn't consent to.
That thought should bother me.
Instead, it steadies something restless inside my chest.
I don't call it a bet.
I call it containment.
And tomorrow, I'll begin behaving like someone who intends to win.