Aylia POV
The change is immediate.
That's what scares me.
Xavier doesn't ease into kindness. He doesn't test it, doesn't experiment. One day he's gravity—unavoidable, heavy, everywhere I turn—and the next, he's… gentle.
Not warm.
Not friendly.
But careful.
It starts Monday morning.
I'm struggling with my locker, fingers numb from the cold, when someone reaches past me and twists the jammed lock open with practiced ease.
"There," Xavier says calmly.
I freeze.
He doesn't smirk. Doesn't linger. Doesn't comment on how startled I am.
He just steps back.
"Your hands are shaking," he adds. "You should wear gloves."
Then he walks away.
I stand there long after he's gone, heart pounding, locker open, breath stuck halfway in my chest.
That was it.
No demand. No pressure.No audience.
The absence of cruelty is so unexpected it leaves me disoriented.
I don't trust it.
I shouldn't.
But part of me—traitorous, exhausted—feels something loosen.
The next time, it's in chemistry.
The teacher pairs us without asking. I tense automatically, shoulders stiff, already bracing for whatever he's planning.
Xavier doesn't look at me.
He slides the worksheet across the table and says, "You handle the calculations. I'll write."
That's it.
No commentary. No hovering. No correction.
When I get one equation wrong, he doesn't point it out aloud. He circles it quietly and slides the paper back to me with a single word written beside it:
Check.
My chest tightens.
He's… respectful.
That's worse than being cruel.
Cruelty I understand. Kindness with no visible motive feels like a trap I can't see.
By lunch, people are watching.
Not whispering this time.
Observing.
Xavier sits across the room, not near me, not touching me with his presence. When Alicia passes my table, her eyes narrow.
Something has shifted.
And I'm standing in the middle of it.
After school, I'm walking to the café when rain starts falling—sharp, cold, sudden.
I pull my jacket tighter, already calculating how soaked I'll be by the time I arrive.
A car slows beside me.
I don't have to look to know who it is.
The window lowers.
"Get in," Xavier says.
"No," I reply automatically.
He doesn't argue.
He steps out of the car instead, holding his jacket out.
"For five minutes," he says. "You can give it back when we reach the café."
I hesitate.
Every instinct screams don't.
But rain is pouring now, and exhaustion is louder than fear.
"Five minutes," I say.
He nods once.
No triumph. No satisfaction.
Inside the car, he keeps the heater low, music off. Gives me space. Doesn't speak.
The silence is unbearable.
"You don't have to do this," I say finally.
"I know."
"Then why are you?"
He glances at me, expression unreadable.
"Because you look like someone who never gets offered help without strings," he says. "And that's inefficient."
I almost laugh.
"That's your idea of kindness?" I ask.
"It's my idea of accuracy."
When we stop in front of the café, he doesn't wait for thanks.
He just says, "You should eat something today."
Then he drives away.
I stand there, jacket in my hands, heart pounding—not with fear.
With confusion.
And that's how he gets inside.
Marcus POV - (Trying to stop a tide)
This is wrong.
Not because it's cruel.
Because it's strategic.
I see it in the way Xavier moves now—measured, deliberate, like he's dismantling something piece by piece instead of breaking it.
I catch up to him near the gym.
"What are you doing?" I ask bluntly.
He doesn't slow. "Walking."
"You know what I mean."
He stops then, turning to face me.
"What do you think you're accomplishing?" I continue. "You scared her. Pressured her. And now you're playing—what? Savior?"
His eyes harden.
"I adjusted my approach."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
I step closer. "You're not fixing anything. You're conditioning her."
He studies me for a long moment.
"You're projecting," he says calmly.
"No," I snap. "I'm watching you turn manipulation into mercy so it feels clean."
That lands.
Not enough to stop him.
But enough to annoy him.
"She trusts me more now," he says. "That's the point."
"And what happens when she realizes that trust was engineered?" I ask.
His jaw tightens.
"That won't happen."
"Because you won't let it?" I push.
"Because I won't need to," he replies.
That's when I understand.
He's not planning an exit.
He's planning permanence.
"You're lying to yourself," I say quietly. "This ends with her hurt."
He leans in just enough that I feel the warning in his presence.
"This ends with control," he says. "Pain is irrelevant."
"You sound like your father," I say.
The words are out before I can stop them.
His eyes flash.
"Watch yourself."
"You're using kindness like a leash," I continue. "And when it tightens—"
"I didn't ask for your permission," he cuts in.
"No," I say. "You're asking for my silence."
He steps back.
"That's already assumed."
And just like that, I know I've lost.
Whatever's coming—I won't be able to stop it.
Aylia POV - (The moment I almost believe him)
It happens on a Thursday.
The worst day of my week.
Double shifts. Midterms. Casey sick at home.
I'm barely holding myself together when Xavier shows up at the café.
My stomach drops.
But he doesn't sit down.
He stands at the counter, orders coffee, pays, and leaves a tip that's too large.
When I bring his cup, my hands are shaking.
"You don't have to do this," I whisper.
"I know," he says gently.
That word again.
Gently.
"I'm not here to make things harder," he adds.
I laugh under my breath. "You already did."
"I know," he repeats. "And I'm correcting it."
"That's not how it works."
"Correction usually isn't comfortable," he says. "But it's necessary."
I meet his eyes.
For the first time, I don't see calculation.
I see restraint.
"I don't understand you," I say.
"That's good," he replies. "It means you're still thinking for yourself."
Something in my chest cracks.
No one has ever said that to me before.
Not teachers. Not family. Not anyone with power.
"You don't owe me anything," he says quietly. "I won't ask for gratitude. Or loyalty."
"Then what do you want?" I ask.
He doesn't answer immediately.
When he does, his voice is low.
"I want you to stop expecting pain from me."
That's it.
That's the moment.
The dangerous one.
Because for half a second—just half—I imagine what it would be like if he meant it.
If this version of him was real.
If maybe… he wasn't the threat.
My guard slips.
Just enough.
He sees it.
And that's when I know—too late—that kindness can be more dangerous than cruelty ever was.
Because cruelty teaches you to run.
Kindness teaches you to stay.