Xavier's POV
I stop pretending after that day.
Pretending implies hesitation.
There is none.
By Monday morning, the rules inside my head have settled into something clean and functional. Structured. Efficient. No noise. No excess. I don't need to improvise, and I don't need Alicia's running commentary or Marcus's concern. I don't need permission.
I need proximity.Influence.Access.
Control.
Aylia Zehir doesn't notice the change immediately.
That's deliberate.
Predators who rush expose themselves. Pressure applied too fast makes people bolt. I don't crowd her. I don't provoke her publicly. I don't repeat the cafeteria or the café. Those were fractures—useful, but messy. They served their purpose.
This phase requires precision.
I begin appearing where I already belong.
Her classes.Her routes.The narrow seams of her day she can't alter without drawing attention to herself.
Predictability is a gift people don't realize they hand over.
She takes the same path from English to physics every day—cuts through the courtyard instead of the main hall. Pauses briefly at the vending machines but never buys anything. Third row by the windows in history. Second table from the back in science. Left side. Always left.
I don't need to write it down.
On Tuesday, I arrive at history early and take the seat beside hers before she gets there.
When she walks in and sees me, she stops.
Not startled. Not angry.
Alert.
That's interesting.
She recovers quickly, masking it with composure that looks practiced. She sets her bag down slowly, deliberately, like she's buying herself time.
"Is this intentional?" she asks quietly.
"Yes."
She blinks once. Studies my face—not searching for charm, not confusion—but calculation. She's weighing outcomes. Whether pushing back will cost her more than staying still.
She sits.
The teacher starts talking. The room fills with the low hum of attention shifting. I don't look at her at first. I let the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable.
"You didn't look at me yesterday," I say.
Her pen pauses mid-word. "I was busy."
"You always are."
She turns then, expression sharp. "What do you want, Xavier?"
There it is.
Direct. Unsoftened. No performance.
"I'm fulfilling my role," I reply calmly. "Peer guidance."
"That's generous phrasing."
"Accurate," I correct. "You've been… isolated."
Her jaw tightens. "I prefer it that way."
"No," I say quietly. "You endure it that way."
The look she gives me is lethal.
"You don't get to decide what I endure."
"I already have," I say. "You're still here."
Her gaze drops back to her notebook. The teacher's voice fills the gap. She doesn't respond—but she doesn't move either.
That's not compliance.
That's containment beginning to work.
Over the next few days, I tighten the net.
I position myself in group assignments before teachers can decide otherwise. I speak for her during discussions—not incorrectly, never inaccurately—forcing attention back onto her when she tries to disappear into the margins.
I walk beside her between classes. I don't touch. I don't crowd. I stay just close enough that people notice.
Whispers change.
Not cruelty.
Curiosity.
"She's with him now.""He doesn't bother unless there's a reason.""Do you think she knows?"
She hears them. I see it in the way her shoulders stiffen, in the slight adjustment of her pace. She starts choosing different exits. Taking longer routes.
She still doesn't confront me.
That unsettles me more than resistance would.
On Thursday, Marcus corners me near the gym.
"Stop," he says flatly.
I keep walking. He matches my stride.
"This isn't subtle anymore," he continues. "You're not observing. You're intervening."
I stop.
Turn slowly.
"What's your point?"
"My point," he says, lowering his voice, "is that you're not acting like yourself."
I almost laugh.
"This is exactly like me."
"No," Marcus says. "This is you right before something breaks."
The words hit closer than he intends.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know patterns," he shoots back. "And this isn't strategy. It's fixation."
That word again.
"You're projecting," I say coldly. "If you have a problem with Alicia—"
"This isn't about Alicia," Marcus interrupts. "It's about her."
He nods toward the courtyard.
Aylia sits on the steps, reading. Alone. Unaware.
"Look at you," Marcus says quietly. "You don't even realize you're watching her."
"I decide where I look."
"Do you?" he asks. "Because it looks like she's deciding for you."
I step closer, voice low. "Be careful."
Marcus doesn't retreat.
"That café thing," he continues, "you let that happen. And now you're circling her like you're trying to undo it."
"I don't fix mistakes," I snap. "I neutralize them."
"By breaking her?"
Silence stretches.
That's answer enough.
Marcus exhales. "This ends badly."
"For who?"
"For you," he says. "Eventually."
I turn away.
He doesn't follow.
That's when I know he's afraid—not of me, but of what I won't stop.
Friday is when Aylia finally reacts.
Not loudly.
Not publicly.
She corners me after chemistry, near the lockers where the cameras don't reach.
"You're doing this on purpose," she says.
"Yes."
Her eyes search my face. "Why?"
For half a second, the truth pushes forward—raw, dangerous, unfiltered.
I crush it.
"Because you need structure," I say instead. "Because you're flailing."
"I am not," she snaps, heat finally breaking through.
"Then why are you shaking?" I ask calmly.
She stills.
I've crossed another boundary.
She hates that I noticed.
"I didn't ask for this," she says. "I didn't ask for you."
"You didn't have to."
"That's not an answer."
I step closer—not enough to trap her, just enough to dominate the space.
"You're safer when I'm involved," I say quietly. "Whether you admit it or not."
Her breath hitches.
Not fear.
Anger.
"That's not protection," she says. "That's ownership."
The word echoes unpleasantly.
"You don't get to define it," I reply.
She laughs once—short, bitter. "You don't even hear yourself anymore."
She walks away.
This time, I let her.
I don't need to follow.
Because now she's aware.
Because the shift she feels—the tightening, the pressure—is real.
She doesn't know why.
She doesn't know how far it goes.
But Marcus does.Alicia does.And I do.
This isn't pursuit anymore.
It's containment.
And if Aylia Zehir thinks she can outlast it—
She's about to learn what endurance actually costs.