Why are you angry Zoe?
Finally, you'll tell me.
"Hardly." I reach for a handful. "Usually I'm planning someone's demise while drinking whiskey in a dramatically lit room. Much more on-brand."
The movie starts, and I find myself relaxing into the absurdity of it all.
I watch Zoe laugh at something on screen, the blue light dancing across her face. She's curled up on the couch now, legs tucked beneath her, completely engrossed in this ridiculous movie about people whose biggest problem is figuring out which attractive person to date.
Something shifts in my chest. A strange, unfamiliar ache that has nothing to do with indigestion from the stale chips.
Fuck.
I know this feeling. I swore I'd never feel it again after Bianca. Yet here it is, creeping past all my defenses, settling into my bones like it belongs there.
I'm falling for her.This maddening, confusing woman who challenges me at every turn. Who I want to trust, but I can't.
Not yet.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing," I lie, reaching for more chips to hide the moment.
She's become essential somehow. Her sharp tongue. Her fearlessness. Even the way she pisses me off feels necessary now, like rainfall after drought.
"You're missing the best part," she says, nodding toward the screen.
But I'm not. The best part is right here, illuminated in the glow of this forgotten house. The way her fingersabsently twist a strand of hair. The slight curve of her lips when she finds something amusing.
It terrifies me. More than any gun pointed at my head. More than any business rival. Because loving someone means creating a weakness – a soft, vulnerable spot in my armor where the world can strike.
I lost Bianca. I couldn't protect her. The thought of failing Zoe the same way makes my blood run cold.
Yet I can't stop this feeling. It's like trying to hold back the tide with my bare hands.
"You're still staring," she says without looking away from the screen.
"You're still worth looking at."
The words come out gruffer than intended. Her eyes flick to mine, surprised by the honesty.
Christ, I'm in love with my wife.
The irony would be fucking hilarious if it weren't happening to me. To this fake marriage.
I suddenly stand from the couch, needing space from these unwelcome feelings. The walls of this house feel like they're closing in, saturated with too many memories—both old and newly forming.
"What's wrong?" Zoe rises too, approaching me with caution. Her eyes search my face, looking for answers I'm not ready to give.
"Nothing. I need a drink." My voice comes out rougher than intended. I run a hand through my hair, trying to recalibrate. "Don't suppose Enzo stocks this place with decent whiskey."
"You can't survive two hours without alcohol?" Zoe teases, stepping closer.
Her mouth curves into that maddening smirk—the one that makes me want to either shut her up or kiss her senseless.
"You think you're very fucking funny, don't you?" I growl.
"I think I'm hilarious," she counters, tilting her face up to mine. "And I think you're afraid."
