Xavier's POV
By Friday, I stop pretending this is incidental.
Incidents imply chaos. Accident. Lack of intent.
What I'm doing now requires structure.
School adjusts to power shifts the way markets do—quietly, efficiently, without asking questions. The teachers don't need to be told twice. Seating charts change. Pairings happen with a kind of inevitability that looks accidental if you don't know what to look for.
Aylia Zehir ends up beside me in science.
Not across the room.
Beside.
Her reaction is immediate. Not dramatic. Just a fraction of a second too slow as she freezes with her notebook half-open, eyes flicking to the empty stools like she's counting exits.
"Assigned partners," Mr. Caldwell says briskly. "Two weeks. Final presentation."
She exhales through her nose. Controlled. Resigned.
Good.
I don't look at her yet. I set my bag down. Remove my pen. Arrange my materials with precision. Let the silence stretch until she has to fill it.
She doesn't.
That's new.
"Voltage regulation," I say calmly, reading the project brief. "Not difficult. But time-consuming."
She nods once. "I can handle my share."
"I'm sure you can," I reply.
She finally looks at me then. Her eyes are sharper than they were last week. More guarded. Like she's learned the shape of me without knowing my name for it.
"We should coordinate schedules," she says. Neutral. Professional. Defensive.
"Yes," I agree. "You'll come to my place."
The words land heavier than they should.
Her pen stills. "I don't—"
"It's more efficient," I continue, tone unyielding but not raised. "I have the equipment. The space. Fewer interruptions."
She studies me. Measuring. Deciding whether this is a trap or an inconvenience.
"Public library," she counters. "Or the lab after hours."
"No."
One syllable. Absolute.
Her jaw tightens. "You don't get to—"
"I do," I interrupt gently. "Because this project affects both our grades. And because I don't negotiate logistics I've already optimized."
The bell rings, merciful and cruel.
She gathers her things too fast. "I'll think about it."
"You'll come," I say.
She pauses at the aisle. Doesn't turn.
"You sound very sure," she says.
"I am."
She leaves without another word.
By lunch, she's avoiding the courtyard.
By fourth period, she's cornered.
Not by me.
By expectation.
"Zehir," Caldwell calls. "Project check-in Monday. Make sure you and Xavier are aligned."
Her shoulders stiffen.
I don't look at her.
I don't need to.
She agrees that afternoon.
Not verbally.
Through action.
She texts me at 6:12 p.m.
What time?
I respond immediately.
Seven. I'll send a car.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
I can get there myself.
I know.
Then—
Seven, Aylia.
There's a pause long enough to be defiance.
Then:
Okay.
She stands at the gate like she doesn't belong there.
Everyone does, at first.
My house isn't intimidating because it's large. It's intimidating because it's controlled. Everything is intentional. Nothing accidental. Even the silence feels curated.
The driver opens the door before she can hesitate.
I meet her at the entrance.
She's dressed simply. Jeans. Soft sweater. Hair pulled back like she didn't want it noticed. Like she didn't want to take up space.
It doesn't work.
"You're late," I say mildly.
She checks her phone. "I'm on time."
"Yes," I agree. "But you hesitated at the gate."
Her eyes flash. "I don't like being watched."
"Then you should choose different places," I reply, stepping aside. "Come in."
My father is in the living room.
That wasn't part of the plan.
He looks up from his tablet, surprised—but not displeased. His gaze moves to her, assessing in the way men like him always assess: posture, eyes, restraint.
"You must be the classmate," he says warmly. "Aylia, yes?"
She straightens instinctively. "Yes, sir."
He smiles. Genuine. Rare. "I'm Elias."
She shakes his hand carefully. "Nice to meet you."
"What are you working on?" he asks.
"Science project," she replies. "Voltage systems."
"Ah," he nods. "Practical. Useful. What else do you do?"
She hesitates.
I watch closely.
"I work," she says finally. "After school. And weekends."
His interest sharpens. "While studying?"
"Yes."
He leans back. "That's discipline."
Something in her expression softens. Just a little.
"My father used to say the same," she adds quietly. "Before he—"
She stops.
Before he died.
I feel it in the way the room tightens.
Elias doesn't push. He simply nods. "Loss teaches focus. Sometimes too much of it."
She swallows. "Yes, sir."
My mother arrives ten minutes later.
The temperature changes immediately.
She doesn't look at Aylia at first. She removes her coat. Sets her bag down. Then finally glances over with professional detachment.
"And who is this?" she asks.
"Aylia," my father says. "Xavier's partner for school."
Her gaze flicks to me. Sharp. Disapproving.
"You didn't mention company."
"It wasn't relevant," I reply.
She hums. "Of course."
She turns back to Aylia. "You should be careful with your time. Distractions at your age can be costly."
Aylia's face closes.
"I won't be long," she says politely.
Good.
She doesn't apologize.
Upstairs, my room is too quiet.
She sets her bag on the desk. Opens her notebook. Keeps distance like it's oxygen.
We work.
For twenty minutes.
I explain circuits. She listens. Asks intelligent questions. Takes notes with precise handwriting.
She's focused.
Too focused.
I move closer under the pretense of pointing something out.
Her breath changes.
Not fear.
Awareness.
"You're tense," I murmur.
"I'm fine."
"No," I correct. "You're bracing."
I sit on the edge of the bed casually. Not looming. Not blocking.
"Come here," I say, patting the space beside me. "The diagrams are clearer from this angle."
She hesitates.
Then crosses the room.
That's the moment.
The almost-belief.
I don't touch her immediately. I let the proximity do the work. Let her feel the warmth. The restraint.
"You don't trust me," I say softly.
She laughs under her breath. "Should I?"
"No," I admit. "But you're still here."
She looks at me. Searching for the trick.
"I don't know what you want," she says.
"I want you to stop flinching," I reply. "I want you to stop assuming harm before it's offered."
Her voice drops. "And if it is?"
"Then you'll know," I say. "Because I won't hide it."
For a moment—just one—she almost believes me.
I see it in the way her shoulders loosen. The way her guard dips.
I lean in.
Not to kiss.
To whisper.
"You're safe here."
The lie is perfect because it's almost true.
She leaves at nine.
My mother doesn't wait.
"She's inappropriate," she says coldly. "You're indulging nonsense."
My jaw tightens. "You don't know her."
"That's the problem."
I don't respond.
I lock my door.
My father knocks later.
Once.
Twice.
I don't answer.
Because something has shifted.
This is no longer curiosity.
It's pursuit.
And I will not stop now.