The sky was once again heavy with clouds, the kind of gray that never seemed to go away from Nevermore. The air carried that eerie stillness, a coldness that pressed against the windows and crept into the corridors.

Everything about the school carried that gothic, old-world atmosphere, like the kind of mansion where a reclusive vampire would brood for centuries. At least, that's what Xavier liked to think whenever he glanced around.

And yet, in the middle of all that gloom, there was her.

He found himself sketching her again, as he so often did. His notebook was half full of her now, lines and strokes capturing the way she sat in front of him, absentmindedly eating, so deep in her own little world that she didn't even notice his eyes on her. Or maybe she did, and just didn't care.

The last few weeks had followed this strange rhythm—an almost eerie silence that somehow felt comfortable. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a simple deal: a fake relationship, convenient for both of them. Pretend, perform, keep the rumors at bay.

But the problem was that Xavier wasn't pretending anymore. The more time he spent with her, the less control he had over himself. He felt it—too strongly, too honestly.

And there she was. Just sitting there. Just being herself. Perfect. Perfect in the reckless way she had agreed to go along with this fake thing, perfect in the way she laughed too loudly sometimes, perfect in the little details she probably never even noticed about herself.

Every day, he memorized something new: the way her hair framed her face when she leaned forward, the way her eyes squeezed shut when she laughed, how her cheeks moved slightly with each step she took. Xavier thought he was going insane—completely insane with how much he cared.

The only person crazier than him seemed to be his father, who had quickly become more obsessed with her than with his own son. Even at camp, when Vincent Thorpe volunteered as one of the chaperones, his excuse was "to bond with my son and daughter-in-law." It was humiliating, infuriating... and somehow, Xavier couldn't even blame him.

Because she was the sun. And he? He was nothing but a planet, revolving endlessly around her, caught in her gravity. She had become the center of his universe.

He tilted his chin up, catching another glimpse of her—her lips forming the shape of a heart as she chewed, without even trying. His pencil moved almost by instinct, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leaned closer to sketch the tiniest mole at the corner of her lips.

A detail so small she probably hadn't noticed it herself, but one that he couldn't stop staring at.

He was so wrapped up in her that he barely noticed when Wednesday approached.

"Xavier."

That familiar monotone cut through the air like a blade, cold and flat, nothing like the sweetness he had grown used to in her voice.

He turned his head just enough to show he was listening, though his body still leaned protectively toward her.

"I need to know if you've had any more visions," Wednesday said. Her pale lips curled almost imperceptibly, her eyes shifting toward her with something close to disdain.

Bitterness rose like bile in Xavier's throat. He hated that look.

"No," he answered quickly, even though it wasn't the truth. He had seen something just a few nights ago—a vision about Willow Hill, with Tyler's face clear as day. But he refused to give Wednesday the satisfaction. He refused to let her throw that gaze at his girlfriend—fake or not.

Even if it meant lying.

"I—" Wednesday began again, but Xavier cut her off, his patience thinning.

"Wednesday, go away." His voice came out sharper than he intended, tense and clipped. For a moment, she hesitated, her expression twisting into something even more sour before she turned on her heel and walked off.

The taller boy let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair as he turned back to her, as if just looking at her could undo the tension in his chest.

"Ah... it's hot, isn't it?" he muttered, forcing out a weak joke that made him chuckle awkwardly. It was ridiculous—Nevermore was never hot. But the way she smiled back at him anyway made his heart flip.

"I know this must... I don't know, feel suffocating for you sometimes. This whole... thing. Our... relationship." He placed the notebook aside, half-hiding the sketch on his thigh, and reached across the table to take her hand.

His fingers wrapped around hers with a kind of nervous gentleness, careful as if she might break under his touch.

Her skin was warm, impossibly soft, and he thought, not for the first time, that he could probably die happy just from holding her like this. His thumb brushed across her knuckles slowly, instinctively, in the way a real boyfriend would.

"I think we're basically living it already, you know?" His voice was lower now, softer, almost vulnerable. "Even Wednesday believes it. Or maybe she just doesn't care." His gaze dropped to their hands, tangled together, as if memorizing the sight. May it stay this way. May it last forever.

"For the record," he added quickly, his voice almost trembling now, "I don't feel anything for her anymore. I swear." His eyes lifted to hers, wide and pleading, desperate for her to believe him, desperate for her to see that his words weren't fake. That nothing about this was fake anymore.