Chapter 154: Xavier's POV

Chapter 154: Xavier's POV
I find them at sunrise.

Hunter's still on the window seat, head tilted back against the frame, fast asleep. Layla's curled against his chest, her face peaceful in a way I haven't seen since—well, since before I called her yesterday morning with news that was supposed to make everything better.

I stand in the doorway for a long moment, coffee mug cooling in my hand, trying to identify the feeling twisting in my chest.

Jealousy, maybe. That Hunter knew exactly what to do when I spectacularly failed.

Or guilt. Definitely guilt.

I should've known better. I'm supposed to be the smart one—the one who thinks three steps ahead, who anticipates problems before they materialize. But I didn't see this coming. Didn't see that winning could feel like losing when the thing you really wanted was never on the table to begin with.

My father would've called it illogical. Emotional thinking. A waste of energy on something that can't be changed.

My father would've been wrong.

I'm starting to realize how often he's wrong about things that matter.

I retreat to the kitchen before either of them wake up, setting my mug down a little too hard on the granite counter. The sharp clink echoes in the quiet morning, and I wince.

"Careful," a voice says from behind me. "That's Waterford crystal. Moira will have your head."

I turn to find AJ leaning against the doorframe, still in his sleep pants and a faded t-shirt, hair sticking up at odd angles. He looks rumpled and half-awake, but his eyes are sharp as always. Assessing.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.

"Woke up early." I turn back to the coffee maker, busying my hands with preparing another cup I don't really want. "You?"

"Heard you moving around." He crosses to the refrigerator, pulls out the orange juice. "Layla okay?"

"She's with Hunter. In the living room. She fell asleep."

AJ nods, unsurprised. Of course he's not surprised. He probably knew exactly where she'd go, what she'd need, who'd be able to give it to her.

Unlike me, who showed up with good news and somehow made everything worse.

"Stop doing that," AJ says.

I glance at him. "Doing what?"

"That thing where you beat yourself up for not being perfect." He pours himself a glass of juice, leans against the counter. "It's exhausting to watch."

"I handled it wrong."

"Yeah, you did." His bluntness is almost refreshing. "But you're learning. That's what matters."

"Is it?" I abandon the pretense of making coffee, turning to face him fully. "Because from where I'm standing, all my learning seems to happen at Layla's expense."

AJ studies me for a long moment, then sets down his glass. "You want to know what your problem is, Xavier?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"You think empathy is something you can logic your way into. Like if you just study hard enough, apply the right formulas, you'll crack the code." He crosses his arms. "But it doesn't work like that. Feelings aren't equations. People aren't problems to solve."

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe because they're true.

"Then what are they?" I ask, and I hate how lost I sound.

"They're just... people. Messy and complicated and sometimes they don't make sense." AJ's expression softens slightly. "And sometimes the best thing you can do is just be there. No solutions. No fixing. Just... present."

"I don't know how to do that."

"I know." He picks up his juice again. "But you're trying. That counts for something."

---

An hour later, I'm in my study, supposedly reviewing case notes for my father's firm. In reality, I've read the same paragraph seven times without retaining a single word.

My mind keeps circling back to Layla's face yesterday. That hollow look in her eyes when I asked why she wasn't happy. Like I'd taken something already fragile and crushed it completely.

You're allowed to be mad. Or scared. Or even both.

Becca's words to Layla, from their video call a few days ago. I'd only caught the end of that conversation, but those words stuck.

Because apparently everyone else understands something fundamental that I'm still struggling to grasp.

My phone buzzes. A text from my father: Need those briefs by EOD. Don't forget the Henderson deposition prep.

I stare at the message, feeling that familiar tightness in my chest. The weight of expectation. The constant pressure to perform, to excel, to be the perfect son who'll take over the firm one day.

When my mother died, my father sat me down in his study—this same study, actually, before he gave me the house—and told me that grief was a luxury we couldn't afford. That we had to be strong. Rational. That falling apart wouldn't bring her back, so what was the point?

I was sixteen.

I didn't cry at her funeral. Didn't cry at all, actually. Just stood there in my too-tight suit feeling nothing, because feeling nothing was safer than feeling everything.

My father called it strength.

I'm starting to think it was just damage.

Another buzz. This time, it's not my father.

Moira: Made Layla's favorite vanilla latte. Thought you might want to bring it to her.

I stare at the text for a long moment.

Such a simple gesture. No expectations attached. No pressure to say the right thing or have the perfect response. Just... here's something that might help, if you want it.

I find Moira in the kitchen, the promised latte sitting on the counter in Layla's favorite mug—the ridiculous one with cats wearing sunglasses that Cade bought her as a joke.

"Thank you," I say, picking it up carefully.

Moira gives me one of her knowing looks. "She's upstairs. In her room. Hunter left about twenty minutes ago to shower."

I nod, then hesitate. "Moira?"

"Yes, dear?"

"How do you... how do you know what people need? Without them having to tell you?"

She turns from the stove, studying me with those sharp eyes that have seen three generations of Reed family drama. "You pay attention. Not to what they say, but to what they don't say. To the little things they do when they think no one's watching."

"That sounds imprecise."

Her mouth quirks. "That's because it is imprecise, Xavier. Love usually is."

Love.

The word sits heavy in the air between us.

"Go on," she says, making a shooing motion. "Before it gets cold."

---

I stand outside Layla's door for a full minute before knocking.

No answer.

I knock again, softer. "Layla? I brought coffee."

Silence. Then, quietly: "Come in."

I push the door open to find her sitting on her bed, knees pulled up, still wearing yesterday's clothes. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, her hair a tangled mess. She looks exhausted.

She looks beautiful.

"Hi," I say, suddenly feeling awkward in a way I never do. I'm Xavier Reed. I don't do awkward.

Apparently, I do now.

"Hi." She watches me hover in the doorway. "You can come in, you know. It's not a sterile field."

I cross to her bed, set the latte on her nightstand. "Moira made this. Vanilla. The way you like it."

"Thank you."

We sit in uncomfortable silence. I can feel her waiting for me to say something—to explain yesterday, to apologize, to offer some perfectly crafted statement that'll make everything okay.

But AJ's words echo in my head: People aren't problems to solve.

So instead, I say: "I don't know how to do this."

She looks up, surprised. "Do what?"

"This." I gesture vaguely between us. "Be here without trying to fix things. Sit with someone who's hurting and not offer solutions. I'm not..." I pause, searching for words. "I'm not built for this kind of ambiguity."

Something shifts in her expression. Not quite a smile, but softer. "I know."

"My father taught me that emotions are inefficient. That the best way to handle pain is to logic your way through it. Find the solution, implement it, move on." I look down at my hands. "When my mother died, he told me crying wouldn't bring her back. That grief was self-indulgent."

"Xavier—"

"I never cried," I continue, needing to get this out. "Not at the funeral. Not after. I just... shut it down. Because that's what strong people do, right? They don't fall apart."

Layla's hand finds mine, her fingers threading through mine. "That's not strength. That's survival."

"I know that now." I meet her eyes. "But yesterday, when you weren't happy about winning, my first instinct was to find the logic error. To figure out why you weren't responding the way you should. Because in my world, winning is supposed to feel good. That's the equation."

"Life isn't an equation."

"No." I squeeze her hand. "It really isn't. And I'm sorry it took me so long to understand that. I'm sorry I made yesterday about what winning should feel like instead of what it actually felt like for you."

She's quiet for a moment, studying our joined hands. Then: "You're learning."

"Slowly."

"That's okay." She leans against my shoulder. "I'd rather have you learning slowly than not trying at all."

We sit like that for a while, her head on my shoulder, my thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. The latte sits forgotten on the nightstand, probably getting cold.

I don't care.

Because for once, I'm not trying to fix anything. Not trying to optimize or problem-solve or find the perfect solution.

I'm just... here.

Present.

And maybe that's enough.

"Xavier?" Layla says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for the coffee. And for being honest."

"Thank you for being patient with me."

She lifts her head to look at me, and there's something in her eyes that makes my chest tight. "We're all learning, Xavier. That's what this is. None of us have done this before."

"Done what?"

"Loved someone like this." She says it simply, like it's a fact rather than a confession. "Messy and complicated and sometimes really hard."

Loved.

There's that word again.

And this time, instead of panicking or deflecting or retreating into logic, I let myself sit with it.

Let myself feel it.

"Yeah," I say softly. "I guess we are."

She leans back against my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer. Outside, I can hear the others starting to wake up—Cade's laugh from down the hall, Hunter's footsteps on the stairs.

But in here, it's just us.

And for now, that's exactly enough.