Marcus POV
The problem with Xavier isn't that he lies.
It's that he believes his own versions long enough to make them real.
I notice it the morning after Aylia leaves his house.
Not because he says anything.
Because he doesn't.
He's quieter than usual. Still. Focused in that unsettling way that means he's already decided something and is just waiting for the world to catch up.
"You good?" I ask, dropping into the chair beside him before first period.
He doesn't look at me. "Define good."
"That bad, huh."
He exhales through his nose. "You always narrate."
"Someone has to," I say. "You stopped."
That gets his attention.
Slowly, he turns his head. Studies me like I've become an equation he didn't expect.
"Say what you're actually here to say."
I lean back. "You invited her into your house."
"So?"
"So you don't do that," I reply. "You don't blur private and public unless you're already in too deep."
His jaw tightens.
"I was supervising a project."
"Bullshit."
His eyes flicker—annoyance, not anger.
"She needed space to work."
"She needed neutrality," I correct. "You gave her proximity."
A pause.
Then: "You're assuming intent."
"No," I say quietly. "I'm watching consequences."
The bell rings. Students flood the hall. Noise fills the gap neither of us closes.
"You think you're helping her," I continue, lowering my voice. "But you're isolating her. People are stepping back because they don't want to get caught in whatever this is."
"That's not my responsibility."
"That's exactly your responsibility," I snap. "You create gravity. You don't get to pretend it doesn't pull."
For a moment—just a moment—I think I've reached him.
Then he stands.
"You're emotional," he says calmly. "That makes you unreliable."
There it is.
The dismissal.
"I'm worried," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Not to me," he replies, already turning away.
I watch him walk down the hall.
And for the first time, I'm not afraid of what he might do.
I'm afraid of how justified he'll feel doing it.
Alicia POV
Marcus is a variable.
Annoying. Moral. Predictable.
Manageable.
Xavier, however—
Xavier is slipping.
Not visibly. Not in any way most people would catch.
But I know him.
I know when his attention sharpens too much. When his control stops being strategic and starts becoming personal.
That's when things need… structure.
I sit in my room that afternoon, laptop open, legs crossed, mind precise.
The bet doesn't start as a wager.
It starts as a framework.
"You're already invested," Camille says from my bed. "Why not formalize it?"
"Because formalizing it forces escalation," I reply. "And escalation creates witnesses."
She smirks. "You say that like it's a downside."
"It is," I say lightly. "Until it isn't."
I draft the terms carefully.
Not cruel.
Not overt.
Clean.
Xavier will deny it exists if confronted. That's fine. The bet isn't for him.
It's for us.
For accountability.
For momentum.
For proof.
I don't tell him immediately.
I wait.
Pressure works best when it arrives late.
By Friday, the school is buzzing quietly.
Aylia and Xavier are seen together more often. Not touching. Not intimate.
But aligned.
That's the danger zone.
I catch Xavier alone by the parking lot after practice.
"You're getting attached," I say conversationally.
"I'm managing a variable," he replies.
"Funny," I say. "Because variables don't usually get invited home."
He stiffens. "You don't get to comment on that."
"I do," I reply. "Because it changes the conditions."
I hand him my phone.
He doesn't take it.
"What is this?" he asks.
"The framework," I say. "Since you refuse to name what you're doing."
"I don't need one."
"You already crossed the line," I say softly. "This just acknowledges it."
He finally looks at the screen.
Skims.
His expression darkens—not with shock.
With recognition.
"You made this without me," he says.
"Yes."
"You're assuming consent."
"No," I correct. "I'm assuming inevitability."
Silence.
"You think this is a game," he says coldly.
"I think," I reply, "that you hate uncertainty more than you hate cruelty."
That lands.
"You won't hurt her," I add. "You'll just prove you can reach her."
"And when I do?" he asks.
I smile. "Then you win."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you learn something far worse."
He hands the phone back.
"This stays theoretical," he says.
"For now," I agree.
But we both know—
Nothing theoretical survives Xavier Atlas.
Xavier POV
The mistake everyone keeps making is assuming this is about desire.
It isn't.
Desire is sloppy.
Reactive.
This is about containment.
About minimizing unpredictability.
Aylia is quieter lately. More careful. More responsive to my presence.
She's adapting.
That's good.
What isn't good is the way my chest tightens when she laughs with someone else.
Or the way irritation spikes when she doesn't look at me right away.
Those reactions are inefficient.
I correct them.
When Alicia shows me the framework, I don't react because reaction would imply acknowledgment.
Instead, I refine.
I pull back at school. Give Aylia space in public again.
Then I reintroduce proximity privately.
Controlled environments.
Study sessions.
Check-ins.
Boundaries she doesn't realize I'm setting.
She thinks she's choosing when she agrees to see me.
She doesn't see the corridor narrowing.
Marcus corners me again near the library.
"Whatever Alicia showed you," he says without preamble, "walk away."
I tilt my head. "You're speculating."
"I'm warning you," he replies. "This isn't about winning anymore."
"It never was."
"Then what is it?" he demands.
I consider lying.
Decide against it.
"It's about proof," I say evenly.
"Of what?"
"That I don't lose control when something matters."
Marcus goes still.
"That's not strength," he says quietly. "That's fear."
"You confuse them because you don't understand leverage."
"And you confuse leverage with safety," he shoots back. "You think if you hold tighter, nothing can leave."
He steps closer.
"She's not a test," he says. "She's a person."
I meet his gaze.
"So am I."
He shakes his head. "You're becoming something else."
"Evolution often looks like corruption to those left behind."
That hurts him.
Good.
He leaves.
That night, I sit alone in my room.
Door locked.
Lights off.
Thinking.
Not about Alicia.
Not about Marcus.
About Aylia.
About the way she looked almost comfortable at my desk.
About how quickly she noticed my mother's disdain.
About the fact that my father liked her.
That last one bothers me more than it should.
Because approval is contagious.
And I don't want this to become shared.
The framework sits untouched on my phone.
I don't accept it.
I don't reject it.
I let it exist.
Which is worse.
Because deep down, beneath logic and control and restraint, I understand the truth no one else does yet:
The bet doesn't start when we agree on terms.
It starts when one of us realizes they're already playing.
And I realized that days ago.
I just haven't said it out loud.