Xavier's POV
After getting home, that was when everything I had said finally caught up with me — not all at once, but in waves that refused to settle. The silence of the house made it worse. Too much space for thoughts to echo. Too much quiet for denial.
How the rejection felt.
How controlled I had been in the moment.
How it still managed to land somewhere deeper than I expected.
And then the apartment.
How I just came up with the idea of letting her stay at one of our apartments in the West Crest estate like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
What was I thinking in the first place?
I face-palmed myself, dragging my hand slowly down my face as if I could physically wipe away the memory of that conversation.
I need a cold shower. I need to get her out of my system.
I walked into my bedroom and stopped just inside the doorway, my eyes scanning the space like I was seeing it for the first time. The bed was perfectly made. The lights dim. Everything in its place.
And yet it felt… hollow.
It needs someone in here.
The thought slipped in before I could stop it, and I exhaled sharply, almost annoyed with myself.
Damn. That girl has me going nuts. I can't seem to get her out of my head.
I took off my shirt, tossing it onto the chair without looking, then walked to my closet and grabbed a towel. My movements felt automatic, like my body was trying to outrun my mind.
I headed straight into the bathroom.
Standing under the shower, the cold water hit my skin hard enough to pull a sharp breath from my lungs. I tilted my head forward, letting it run over my face, over my shoulders, down my back — hoping it would quiet the noise inside my head.
It didn't.
I kept reminiscing about the way she looked at me before rejecting me — the steadiness in her eyes, the careful choice of words, the way she didn't run from the conversation even when it clearly cost her something.
Well, not totally rejecting me. Just telling me her mind… her thoughts… how wrong she felt it was.
Yeah. How she felt it was wrong.
Had I not thought it was wrong? I did. Of course I did. I knew the line. I knew the weight of it. The consequences.
But why did she have to point it out so clearly like that?
Because she's Khloe.
Because she doesn't pretend.
Because she says the hard things even when they hurt.
I stayed longer in the shower than I intended, letting the water run until the chill seeped into my muscles, until my breathing finally slowed — though my thoughts never fully did.
When I finally got out, I dried off slowly, the towel rough against my skin grounding me just enough to move forward.
I went downstairs to prepare something to eat, more out of habit than hunger. The kitchen lights flicked on, bright against the dark windows, reflecting a version of me that looked composed but felt anything but.
I pulled out pots and pans, setting them on the counter, but then it occurred to me…
I should at least ask if she's eaten.
The thought came with a quiet certainty that felt almost dangerous — like reaching toward something I'd already been warned about.
I walked to the side table, picked up my phone, opened her contact, and stared at her name for a second longer than necessary before typing:
"Hey, just wanted to check up to see if you've had dinner."
Sent.
It ticked.
Then three dots appeared.
My chest tightened slightly — not dramatically, just enough to remind me how invested I already was.
Then the message came in.
"I have, thanks. Have you?"
I exhaled softly, leaning back against the counter.
Well… this is where my flirting ass came in.
"No, about to… and thought of you."
Sent.
She read it almost immediately.
That small detail alone sent a quiet warmth through my chest.
It took longer than usual for her to reply this time. The three dots appeared… disappeared… then came back again. I raised a brow, skeptical, a small smile tugging at my mouth as I imagined her debating what to say.
Then finally:
"So you thought of me while about to have your dinner?"
A sly smile spread across my face, followed by a quiet chuckle that filled the empty kitchen just enough to soften the silence.
What I would do to get her out of my head… because she was in too deep at this point, and I was starting to fear I might look for a way around that boundary — around that rejection — because I just couldn't handle this torture.
I typed back:
"Haha yeah… you always pop into my head. I can't seem to control it."
Her reply came quicker this time, almost like she hadn't wanted to think too hard about it.
"Go to sleep and by the time you wake up, I'm out."
I stared at the message for a second, my thumb hovering over the screen, feeling the weight of what she was really saying beneath the humor — distance, boundaries, protection.
Before typing:
"But that's the thing… I don't want to get you out of my head. I just want you there, just as you are. That's my new safe haven."
I looked at the words for a moment, my jaw tightening slightly as I debated whether honesty was bravery or stupidity tonight.
Then I sighed… and hit send.
Seen.
A second later, her reply came through.
" Don't get me out then."
I blinked, shocked, my heart giving one hard, unexpected beat against my ribs.
Not encouragement.
Not rejection.
Something in between.
And somehow… that felt even more dangerous.