Xavier POV
I stop pretending after that.
Pretending suggests uncertainty.
There is none.
By Monday morning, the structure is complete in my head. Clean. Efficient. Predictable. I don't need Alicia's pressure or Marcus's concern. I don't need improvisation.
I need access.
Aylia Zehir doesn't notice the shift right away.
That's intentional.
I don't crowd her. I don't repeat the cafeteria or the café. Public humiliation is inefficient now. It draws variables. Sympathy. Noise.
This phase is quieter.
More invasive.
I begin appearing where I am already allowed to be.
Her classes.Her corridors.Her pauses.
People think proximity is accidental when it's dressed as routine.
She takes the same route from English to physics every day. Cuts through the courtyard. Pauses by the vending machines but never buys anything. Sits near exits. Third row. Window side.
I don't write it down.
I don't have to.
On Tuesday, I arrive early to history and take the seat beside hers before she enters.
She stops when she sees me.
Not startled.
Alert.
Her eyes flick to the door. Then back to me.
"Is this intentional?" she asks.
"Yes."
She hesitates. A calculation. Whether resistance costs more than compliance.
She sits.
The teacher starts talking. I wait. I let the silence stretch until it becomes pressure.
"You didn't look at me yesterday," I say.
Her pen stills. "I was busy."
"You always are."
She turns then, slow and deliberate. "What do you want, Xavier?"
Direct. No softening.
"I'm fulfilling my role," I reply. "Peer support."
Her mouth tightens. "That's generous phrasing."
"Accurate," I say. "You're isolated."
"I prefer it."
"No," I correct. "You endure it."
That lands.
Her jaw clenches. "You don't get to decide what I endure."
"I already have," I say quietly. "You're still here."
She looks away.
That microsecond is enough.
Over the next days, I tighten the perimeter.
Teachers pair us without hesitation. Group leaders look to me before speaking over her objections. Security stops questioning why I linger where I don't technically belong.
Influence doesn't require force when expectation does the work.
She feels it before she understands it.
I see it in the way she pauses before entering rooms. In how she sits closer to exits. In the way her shoulders tense before she looks up.
Flight instinct.
On Wednesday, I intercept her before history.
Not by blocking her path.
By stepping into it early enough that stopping feels voluntary.
"Walk with me," I say.
She doesn't.
She keeps moving.
So I match her pace.
"I don't owe you conversation," she says.
"No," I agree. "But you owe yourself awareness."
She stops abruptly. Turns.
"You're not my mentor," she snaps. "You're not my friend. You're not—"
"—someone you can ignore?" I finish.
Her eyes flash. "You're someone I want to."
That almost makes me smile.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you make everything heavier."
The honesty catches me off guard.
Not because it's untrue.
Because it's exact.
"You were already carrying too much," I reply. "I just stopped pretending not to see it."
"You don't see me," she says. "You see a problem."
"Everything is a problem before it's solved."
"That's your flaw," she says quietly. "You think people are systems."
"And you think you're exempt," I reply. "You're not."
She watches me like she's memorizing my face. Like she's cataloging threat.
"Whatever this is," she says slowly, "stop."
I lean in—not close enough to touch. Close enough to dominate the space.
"You don't get to ask that anymore."
Her breath stutters.
Good.
She leaves without looking back.
That should feel like victory.
Instead, irritation coils tight with something sharper.
I don't follow.
Not yet.
Alicia slides into my car that afternoon without asking.
"You're dragging," she says, checking her reflection.
"Am I?"
"She's still upright," Alicia continues. "Still quiet. Still intact."
"That bothers you."
"It should bother you," she counters. "You're losing momentum."
"You're impatient."
"I'm efficient."
I pull onto the road.
"You don't dictate my pace."
Her tone cools. "Then why am I reinforcing an environment you refuse to define?"
My grip tightens.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she says lightly, "your presence is protection whether you intend it or not. People hesitate around her. They shouldn't."
That lands.
"You went behind my back."
"I went ahead of you," Alicia corrects. "You hesitated."
"I had control."
She laughs softly. "You're lying. To me or yourself—I don't care which."
I pull over.
Abruptly.
She blinks. "What are you doing?"
"You don't touch her world without my consent."
Her smile is slow. Knowing.
"That's interesting," she says. "Because you haven't told me to stop."
Silence stretches.
"You're not angry I interfered," she continues. "You're angry I exposed you."
I start the car again.
"Stay out of it."
She laughs. "You brought me into it the moment you didn't shut this down."
Marcus corners me near the gym later.
He doesn't waste time.
"This ends badly," he says.
"For who?"
"For you."
I scoff. "You're dramatic."
"You're fixating," he replies. "And calling it strategy."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know patterns," Marcus says. "And this is you before you burn something."
"You're projecting."
"No," he says. "I'm watching behavior."
He gestures toward the courtyard, where Aylia sits alone, reading.
"You don't orbit someone's life like this unless you're afraid of what they make you feel."
"I decide where I look."
"Do you?" Marcus asks. "Then why does it bother you when she doesn't?"
I step closer. "Careful."
He doesn't move.
"You shut down after Reese died," Marcus continues. "You turned people into objects because it hurt less. And now you're doing it again."
"She's not—"
"—special?" he cuts in. "Then why are you here instead of anywhere else?"
I don't answer.
Marcus exhales. "You're not in control. You're compensating."
"I don't compensate."
"You're about to," he says quietly. "And when you do, you won't stop at winning. You'll want proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That she matters."
I walk away.
Because he's close enough to be dangerous.
That night, I see her again.
Unexpected.
She exits the café, apron folded under her arm, exhaustion written into her posture.
She freezes when she spots me across the street.
I don't approach.
I don't wave.
I just stand there.
Watching.
She hesitates. Then squares her shoulders and walks past me.
Close enough that I catch coffee and something softer underneath.
She doesn't look at me.
That hurts more than it should.
As she disappears down the block, the truth settles—cold and undeniable.
I don't just want access.
I want response.
And if she won't give it freely—
I will create the conditions where she has no choice.
That's the moment the line dissolves.
Not the bet.
Not yet.
But the certainty that this is no longer optional.
Something irreversible has already begun.
And soon—
It will demand terms.