Kamsi's feet seemed to move of their own accord, drawn toward the balcony as if something—someone—compelled her forward. She paused, a strange fluttering in her chest. She hadn't even meant to come here, but now, as her eyes searched the dim light, she couldn't look away.
There he was. Xavier.
His broad shoulders gleamed in the soft glow of the setting sun, water dripping from his hair, and his towel in hand, as he raked it through his damp strands. The image of him, half-reclined, muscles defined and chest bare, felt like a punch to her gut. Heat rushed to her face, and she fought the urge to look away. But her feet remained frozen, and before she could gather her bearings, their eyes met.
Xavier's gaze was unrelenting. A smirk played on his lips, a devilish glint in his eyes as if he knew exactly what effect he was having on her. "Take a good look," he said with a teasing drawl, "I'm not shy about my perfect body."
Kamsi's heart pounded in her chest, and a rush of embarrassment surged through her. Why was he always so...infuriating? But there was no denying the tension in her limbs, the way her pulse quickened. She forced herself to look away, clearing her throat, trying to mask the wild storm of emotions swirling inside her.
"I—uh, I just came to thank you. For taking me to the infirmary earlier," she said, her voice betraying her attempt to stay composed. She swallowed, hoping he wouldn't notice the slight tremor in her words.
Xavier's eyes softened just for a moment, his lips curling slightly at the edges. He gave a small nod, the flicker of something—maybe genuine care—passing through his gaze, but just as quickly, his usual mask of indifference slid back into place.
"Yeah," he replied, humming in acknowledgment. "No problem."
For a heartbeat, the air between them seemed to hang heavy, thick with something unsaid. Kamsi felt it—the pull. His presence was overwhelming, the kind of intense energy that made it impossible to think clearly. She turned, eager to escape before it became unbearable.
But just as she reached for the door, his voice stopped her.
"Wait," Xavier called out. His tone shifted, a trace of something different—less teasing and more...genuine? "How's your stomach? Feeling better?"
The question was unexpected, a stark contrast to his usual arrogance. Kamsi paused, caught off guard. His eyes were no longer mocking, but there was a hint of concern in them—something vulnerable, hidden beneath the layers of his usual bravado.
She felt a pang of discomfort, caught between wanting to brush it off and the strange urge to answer him honestly. She took a breath, steadying herself.
"It's much better," she answered, forcing a smile as her heart continued to race.
Xavier nodded, though his gaze lingered on her a moment longer, as if trying to decipher her. When she stepped back inside, a small sigh escaped his lips, and his eyes flicked to the horizon, lost in thought. For the briefest moment, the facade of the arrogant, untouchable Xavier seemed to crack, a fleeting glimpse of something else—a vulnerability he kept hidden so well.
As Kamsi disappeared into the room, Xavier remained standing by the balcony, his posture relaxed but his mind far away. That strange flicker of concern didn't fade easily. Maybe he didn't know why he cared, but for the first time in a long time, he was bothered by something he couldn't control.
The smirk returned to his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He let out a deep breath, a trace of something darker behind it.
Shut the fuck up, he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if trying to banish the thoughts from his mind.
Meanwhile,Gilbert pushed open the apartment door, the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders. He stepped inside, the faint clink of ice against glass freezing him mid-step. His father was home.
In the dim living room, his father sat in the oversized leather armchair, the glow of the table lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular face. A glass of amber liquid rested in his hand, swirling lazily as he leaned back, his gaze snapping to Gilbert. The air between them thickened, oppressive, like a storm about to break.
"Welcome, son," his father said, his voice smooth but cold, like polished steel.
Gilbert stiffened. He tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack, his eyes flicking to the hallway. An exit was in sight, but his father's sharp voice pinned him to the spot.
"How long are you going to keep playing this game?" The words were calm, but his tone carried the weight of judgment. "High school's almost over, and yet you're still frolicking around. Do you think you have forever to figure out your life?"
Dropping his bag with a muted thud, Gilbert straightened, his jaw clenching. His voice, though quiet, carried a steady edge. "I'm not interested in taking over your company. I want to build something of my own."
His father's laugh was a low, humorless sound as he slammed his glass onto the table, the ice rattling violently. "Your own path?" His brows furrowed, his lips curling into a sneer. "Let me tell you something, Gilbert. That big tech recognition you're so proud of? I pulled the strings to make it happen."
The words hit Gilbert like a gut punch. His body went rigid, his eyes narrowing as disbelief flickered across his face. "You did what?" he asked, his voice strained.
His father leaned forward, his presence dominating the room. "You're a child playing in a world of wolves. Without me, you'd have been eaten alive."
Gilbert's fists tightened at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. His chest rose and fell, breaths uneven as he fought to keep his voice steady. "I stopped the hack. Me,Not you. Why can't you trust me?"
His father waved a dismissive hand, leaning back with a scoff. "Trust you? You've done nothing to earn it. You want to lead someday? Prove you're not a liability."
The derision in his father's voice sliced through Gilbert's defenses, his stomach twisting with a mix of anger and despair. He took a shaky step closer, his gaze sharp, his voice trembling but resolute. "All you care about is control. You don't see me—you never have. You just want another puppet to dance to your tune."
Across the room, his mother sat on the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She glanced at Gilbert, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she wanted to speak but held herself back. The tension in her posture, the subtle way her fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt, betrayed her frustration.
His father's face darkened, veins pulsing at his temple as he shot to his feet. "You don't walk away from me, Gilbert!"
But Gilbert had already turned. His steps were heavy and purposeful, each one reverberating through the strained silence of the apartment. He disappeared down the hall, his hand gripping the doorknob of his room before slamming the door shut with a force that made the walls shudder.
Inside, he leaned against the door, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. The quiet felt deafening, pressing in on him as he slid down to the floor, his back against the cold wood. He stared at the ceiling, his fists still clenched, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind.
Somewhere, buried beneath his anger, was a gnawing ache—the small, fragile hope that, for once, his father might believe in him.