By the next morning, the rumors had already started.
Not loud rumors — quiet ones, the kind that travel under breath and behind hands. Conversations paused when I walked into a hallway. Eyes softened with curiosity and sharpened with judgment.
I didn't need anyone to explain it to me.
Xavier's attention came with a spotlight.
And no one wanted to stand in it.
Joy met me outside the lecture hall with two cups of iced coffee and a look that was either pity or warning.
"You talked to him," she said, handing me a cup.
"It was just a greeting."
She gave me the kind of smile people give children when they're too innocent to understand danger.
"There's no such thing as 'just a greeting' with him."
I opened my mouth to respond — but someone bumped into my shoulder, harder than necessary.
A girl.
Pretty. Confident. The kind who never had to try.
She looked me up and down, slow, unimpressed.
"You're new," she said.
Fourth person to say that. I was starting to hate the word.
"Yes."
"Well…" She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Enjoy it while it lasts."
Before I could even ask what "it" meant, she walked away, swaying, knowing I was watching.
Joy exhaled.
"That's Alexa," she explained. "Xavier's… not girlfriend. But close enough to think she has the right to warn people."
Ah. So that's what this was.
Not jealousy.
Territory.
I didn't respond. I didn't care enough to.
But I could feel it —
eyes from the second-floor balcony.
Xavier.
Leaning on the railing. Watching. Expression unreadable.
Not angry.
Not amused.
Just… focused.
Like he was taking note of every reaction.
And I gave him none.
I looked away first, walking into class.
He didn't speak to me that day.
Not during lectures. Not after. Not in the hallway.
But I felt him.
When I laughed with Joy.
When a guy from our class asked if I wanted help finding the library.
When I tied my hair up on the stairs and the breeze caught it.
His eyes followed — silently — with the calm patience of someone who knew time was on his side.
Nothing dramatic.
No lines.
No approaches.
Just presence.
And sometimes presence is louder than attention.
After classes, I went to the library to read and get away from the noise. The campus was loud, but the library was still — a place where breathing sounded like words.
I found a small corner table by the window.
I didn't even notice him until he sat across from me.
No hello.
No smirk.
Just him and the quiet.
He placed his phone face-down on the table and leaned back in the chair, studying me like the sunlight behind me was part of the scene he was trying to memorize.
"You avoided me today."
My heart reacted.
I didn't.
"I had classes," I said simply.
He nodded once.
"Doesn't mean you didn't notice."
I looked up.
He was smiling.
Not charming or arrogant — knowing.
"You look quiet," he said. "But you notice everything."
"And you don't?" I asked.
"Only what's interesting."
Silence.
Heavy, warm, almost intimate.
I didn't ask what he meant.
He didn't need to explain.
He shifted forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough that I felt it more than heard it.
"Stay exactly how you are," he said.
"Don't start listening to them."
My breath caught — not because of what he said…
…but because of how he said it.
Not as advice.
But as a request.
A warning.
A claim he wasn't ready to admit to.
Before I could respond, he stood up.
No goodbye.
No glance back.
He didn't need either.
His presence stayed after he left.
Like heat in the air.
Like a touch on the skin.
Like something beginning.