Xavier's POV
"This," I said quietly, "is the part where we stop pretending."
The words didn't come out dramatic or sharp. They came out tired. Like something I'd been carrying too long had finally slipped from my grip.
I meant it.
I meant it in the way a man means something when he's reached the end of his own excuses. When denial stops being strategic and starts being cowardly.
For a heartbeat, she didn't respond.
Then
"No."
One word. Soft, firm, unmistakable.
It landed harder than I expected, like a door closing somewhere in my chest.
I stilled, every instinct in me going rigid. She took a step back—not rushed, not panicked. Controlled. Deliberate. Creating space the way someone does when they need air. Or distance. Or safety.
Like I was too much.
"We can't do this," she said.
My jaw tightened before I could stop it.
"And why not?"
I asked the question evenly, but part of me already knew the answer. Because I'd built it myself. Brick by careful brick. Policy by policy. Silence by silence.
"Because we have to be professional."
There it was.
The word I'd used like armor. The word I'd hidden behind when looking at her started to feel like standing too close to a fire.
Professional.
I let out a breath through my nose. "That's what you're worried about?"
"Yes." She didn't hesitate. "Xavier, you're my boss. This....whatever happened last night....crosses a line."
A line she had crossed with me.
"A line you didn't seem afraid to cross when you kissed me back," I said quietly.
The accusation wasn't sharp. It wasn't cruel. It was honest.
Her breath caught. I saw it—the smallest betrayal. The way her fingers curled slightly at her side, like she was holding onto something invisible.
"That's not fair."
"I'm not trying to be unfair," I said. "I'm just being honest."
"Well, I am too."
Her gaze lifted to mine. Not defensive. Not flustered.
Resolved.
Clear in a way that scared me more than anger would have.
"You can't say we should stop pretending," she continued, voice low but steady, "when you're the one who set the rules in the first place."
Something tight pulled in my chest.
"When I first came to your office," she said, and I felt it before she even finished the sentence, "when I asked you directly....when I asked if I had misunderstood something between us…"
God.
I remembered that day too clearly. The way the light had come through the glass wall behind her. The way she'd stood straighter than usual, like she'd practiced courage in the mirror before walking in.
The question had been in her eyes before she ever said it.
"…you brushed me off," she said. "You said it was professional. Strictly professional."
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Because she was right.
I had done that.
"I wasn't brushing you off," I said finally. "I was trying to protect you."
Her brows lifted just slightly. Not mocking. Curious.
"Protect me from what?"
I hesitated.
And the hesitation betrayed me more than any confession could have.
"From me," I admitted. "From the way I was starting to feel about you."
Her breath faltered. Just enough for me to notice.
"But you didn't tell me that," she said. "You let me walk around thinking I was imagining everything."
That one cut deeper than I expected.
Because she wasn't accusing me. She was stating a fact.
"You weren't imagining anything," I said, sharper now. "Not then. Not now."
"But this is exactly why we can't do this."
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay grounded, to stay present instead of defensive.
"I'm not asking for anything inappropriate," I said. "I'm not asking for anything at all. I just need you to be honest about what you feel."
"That's the problem," she whispered.
I frowned. "What is?"
"I don't know what I feel right now."
Her voice wavered for the first time, and something in me softened painfully at the sound.
"Last night. This morning. You showing up instead of Jayden. Breakfast. This conversation…" She shook her head slightly. "It's too much."
The realization hit me square in the chest.
"I overwhelmed you."
She didn't deny it.
"Yes."
The word wasn't angry. It wasn't dramatic.
It was tired.
Regret flickered through me, sharp and immediate. I hadn't meant to push. I'd just… stopped holding back all at once.
"Then tell me what you need," I said quietly.
"I need things to stay professional."
I nodded once, even though something in me resisted violently. Even though every instinct I had wanted to argue, to negotiate, to pull her closer instead of letting her draw lines.
"And what do you want?" I asked anyway.
Her eyes closed.
"That's not fair."
"Maybe not," I said. "But it's honest."
Silence stretched between us, heavy but not hostile. I watched her breathe through it, watched the way she steadied herself.
Finally, she opened her eyes.
"I can't want anything from you," she said. "Not when you already made it clear this should never cross the line."
"I made it clear," I said slowly, "because I knew if I didn't…"
I stopped myself. Then forced the rest out.
"…I wouldn't be able to stop myself."
Her breath hitched again, sharper this time.
"But you did stop yourself," she said. "And I adjusted."
That word—adjusted—felt like a verdict.
Like she'd bent herself around my boundaries until they became hers too.
"I just want things to go back to normal," she said.
I shook my head slightly, the movement small but honest.
"I don't know if I can pretend anymore."
"You have to," she said softly. "Because I can't survive this back-and-forth."
That one settled somewhere deep, heavy and real.
"You think you don't matter to me?" I asked quietly.
"That's not what I said."
"That's what I heard."
Her gaze dropped, and for the first time, she looked unsure.
"We need boundaries," she said.
I nodded.
I meant it when I did.
I would respect them. I would not cross them. I would do the responsible thing. The right thing.
But the truth sat beneath all of that, brutal and unmovable:
I had already crossed something inside myself.
And once a man stops pretending to himself, there is no clean way back.
Nothing about this was over.
Not for me.