Aylia's POV
I feel it before I see it.
That pressure.
That subtle tightening in my chest, like the room has leaned slightly off balance and I'm the only one standing wrong.
By the time I look up from my book, it's already happening.
Xavier Atlas stands a few lockers down the corridor.
Not moving.Not speaking.Not surrounded.
Just there.
Waiting.
The realization lands like a dropped plate—sharp, unavoidable.
He doesn't wait for people. People wait for him.
My fingers curl tighter around the edge of the page. I tell myself not to look again. Tell myself that attention is optional, that I don't owe anyone a reaction.
But my body betrays me.
I straighten. My shoulders tense. My breathing changes.
He notices.
Of course he does.
Xavier's gaze lifts, precise as a blade finding its target. The hallway noise dims around us—not because it actually quiets, but because my focus narrows to the space between us.
It feels dangerous.
I pack my book away, slower than necessary, buying myself seconds I don't know what to do with. When I stand, my legs feel light, almost unreal.
I step into the flow of students, aiming for the stairs.
"Zehir."
My name cuts through everything.
Not loud.Not cruel.
Controlled.
It stops me mid-step.
I turn.
That's mistake number one.
His eyes are already on me, dark and unreadable, like he's been waiting to see how quickly I'd obey. The thought makes my stomach twist.
"Yes?" I say.
The word sounds steadier than I feel.
He steps closer.
Not aggressively. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for me to feel it.
"Leaving early," he says.
It isn't phrased as a question. It's an observation, delivered with the kind of certainty that makes explanations feel pointless.
"I have work," I reply.
His gaze flicks to my bag. Then back to my face.
"At the café," he says.
I freeze for half a second too long.
That's all it takes.
"How do you know that?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"I notice things."
Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle. Like noticing isn't passive to him. Like it's a choice.
"I don't see how that concerns you," I say.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me the way people study puzzles they haven't decided whether to solve or break.
"It doesn't," he agrees. "Yet."
That single word sinks deep.
Yet implies intention.
Before I can respond, heels click against the floor behind him.
Alicia Vigere.
She slides into place like she owns the space, smile polished, posture perfect. Her eyes flick between us once, quick and assessing.
"Oh," she says lightly. "I was hoping I'd catch you two."
I don't miss the way her gaze sharpens when it lands on me.
Xavier doesn't turn to her. That alone feels wrong.
"I was just asking Aylia about her schedule," he says calmly.
My name sounds different in his mouth this time.
Not distant.Not dismissive.
Intentional.
Alicia's smile tightens. "You're taking an interest."
"I like understanding patterns," he replies.
The words settle uneasily in my chest.
I don't want to be a pattern.
"I should go," I say quietly.
This time, I don't ask permission.
Xavier steps aside.
That's worse than if he'd stopped me.
"See you later," he says.
Later.
The word follows me down the hall, out the doors, into the cold air outside. I don't slow until my lungs burn, until the school is behind me and the noise fades into something manageable.
Something has changed.
I don't know what it is yet.
But I know this much—
Xavier Atlas doesn't look at people without deciding something first.
And today, he decided something about me.
The café should ground me.
It usually does.
Luxury cafés run on precision. On rules. On expectations that don't shift without warning. I like that. I like knowing exactly what's required of me.
But today, even the rhythm feels off.
Orders stack up fast. Espresso machines hiss and steam. Plates clatter. Voices blur together. I move automatically—smile, nod, write, deliver—letting muscle memory carry me while my thoughts lag behind.
Then the pressure returns.
I look up.
Xavier stands just inside the entrance.
Alone.
No Alicia. No audience.
My heart stutters.
He hasn't seen me yet. He's scanning the room slowly, methodically, like he's memorizing it. Like he plans to return.
Mira nudges me. "Your table."
I nod and move before I can think better of it.
By the time I reach him, he's seated.
Window-adjacent. Central. Visible.
Of course.
"Good afternoon," I say, slipping into my work voice. "Can I get you something to drink?"
He looks up.
This time, there's no coldness in his gaze.
Just focus.
"Coffee," he says. "Whatever you recommend."
That throws me.
"I—okay."
I write it down quickly and turn away, my pulse loud in my ears.
My hands shake as I prepare the order.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
That realization unsettles me more than anything else today.
When I return, he watches every movement as I set the cup down, as if the way I work matters. As if I matter.
"You're good at this," he says.
"Thank you."
Silence stretches.
Then—
"You don't like me."
I blink. "I'm sorry?"
"You tense when I'm near," he continues evenly. "You avoid eye contact. You leave rooms I enter."
"That's not—"
"You're careful," he corrects. "I respect that."
I don't know what to do with that.
"I should check on another table," I say.
"I'm not accusing you," he adds. "I'm curious."
"About what?"
"How long you can keep pretending you don't feel this."
My chest tightens. "Feel what?"
He meets my eyes fully now.
"Pressure," he says softly.
I straighten. "If there's nothing else, I need to work."
He nods easily. "Of course."
But as I walk away, I feel his attention follow me—not possessive yet.
Evaluative.
And something inside me whispers a truth I don't want:
He isn't here to hurt me.
Not yet.
He's testing.
That night, lying in bed, exhaustion finally crashes over me all at once.
The delayed kind.
The kind that leaves your body heavy and your thoughts too loud.
I replay every word. Every look. Every moment that felt slightly off.
Xavier Atlas doesn't do coincidence.
And today—
He stepped closer.
Not to intimidate.
To observe.
I turn onto my side, staring at the wall, heart pounding with a sense of inevitability I can't name.
I don't know what he wants.
I only know this—
Whatever game he's started, I didn't agree to play.
And somehow…
That doesn't mean I'm not already losing.