Xavier's POV
Xavier told himself he didn't care. Told himself she was just a phase. A flicker. A moment that would pass.
But every time he saw Liana—head bent over her sketchpad, her fingers stained with charcoal, her lips pressed into that stubborn line—he felt something tighten in his chest.
He hated that feeling.
From a distance, he watched her work after classes in the studio, headphones on, shoulders tense with focus. No one else noticed the dark circles under her eyes or the way her hand trembled when she drew too long without a break.
But he did.
And he hated himself for noticing.
One evening, after staying late for a meeting with the school board, he passed the art room again. The door was slightly open. She was still there—alone.
On impulse, he turned back.
The next day, when Liana arrived at the studio, a new set of high-quality art supplies—brushes, acrylics, even a fresh sketchpad—sat neatly on the desk. No note. No explanation.
Bianca blinked. "Where'd this come from?"
Liana stared, confused. "I... don't know."
Hidden around the hallway corner, Xavier leaned against the wall, listening to her surprise, his heart thudding harder than it should.
"Maybe the school donated it?" Bianca guessed.
"Maybe," Liana whispered, running her hand gently over the brush set.
He didn't expect a thank you. Didn't want one. He just needed her to be okay—needed her to shine when it mattered. Even if it meant pretending he didn't care.
Later that week, when the school released the lineup of participants for the Talent Festival, he wasn't surprised to see Liana Rivera – Visual Art in bold.
But what did surprise him was how proud he felt.
Ralph scoffed at the announcement. "She's really doing it, huh?"
"Let her," Xavier said smoothly, tucking the flyer into his pocket.
Let her rise.
Let her burn.
He would be watching from the shadows—cold on the outside, but slowly, helplessly, melting inside.