The Drakkon raised his hands in surrender and wandered off, muttering to himself.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The roar of the crowd swelled again as another heat began, but it felt far away.
“I think I’m ready to go home,” Zara said quietly.
Hektor didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
They left without looking back, and the walk through the grounds felt longer than before, the excitement replaced by the scrape of gravel and distant cheers. Zara was silent, her gaze fixed ahead. Not angry. Just closed off in a way that unsettled him far more.
The drive back through his neighborhood passed in near silence. The mountains rose dark and familiar; the roads winding gently, but none of it eased the tightness in his chest.
When he pulled into the garage, Zara unbuckled immediately. The engine barely stopped before she opened the door and stepped out, moving away from the car with quiet urgency. She didn’t slam the door. She didn’t sigh. She just put space between them as quickly as she could.
He found her in the kitchen with a glass of water pressed to her lips. She didn’t turn when he came in.
“Things are weird,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.”
The simple agreement felt heavier than an argument would have.
Then she finally looked at him, and the hurt in her eyes hit him like a physical blow. Not anger. Not an accusation. Hurt. Clean and sharp and unmistakable.
“You lied to me,” she said.
His heart dropped hard into his chest. Instinct made him reach for denial, for space. “About what?” he asked, too carefully.
“No,” she said, voice tightening. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like that.” She set the glass down, the sound sharp against the stone. “You didn’t tell me about Eleonora ending up with Nyxion.”
“There’s nothing there,” he said immediately. “There hasn’t been for a long time.”
“There is something,” she shot back, “because you didn’t say anything.
“Standing there today, watching people look at me like I was the last one to arrive at a story everyone else already knew. I felt stupid, Hektor. Like a fool.”
“That wasn’t my intention,” he said. “It didn’t even occur to me to bring it up because it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” she said. “All you had to do was tell me. Just tell me. And there wouldn’t have been a problem.”
He exhaled, frustration creeping in despite himself. “Why are you being like this?” he asked. “We’re having fun, aren’t we? We’re good. We’ve been good.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. She shook her head once, small but decisive.
“That’s the problem,” she said softly. “You think this is just fun.”
The words landed between them, heavier than anything she’d said before.
He stared at her, suddenly unsure of the ground he was standing on, realizing too late that what he had dismissed as unimportant had already cracked something fragile and real.
“Do you love me?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Because I love you.”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he crossed the space between them, slow and deliberate, like he was afraid one wrong move would shatter her. The silence stretched, thick and painful.
“What,” she said, voice breaking, “you’re really not going to say anything?”
Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “I can’t feel it,” she whispered. “I don’t feel that you do. And I can’t accept it like this.”
