Gio steps in beside me, his presence massive and overheated. He tries to drape his arm over my shoulders, a heavy, possessive weight meant to stake a claim in front of his team. I sidestep him immediately, a smooth, calculated slide to the left that leaves him grabbing at empty air. I walk straight to Genny, leaning over the back of the couch to scan the code on her screen.
"Status," I say.
"Encryption is thicker than expected," Genny says, not looking up. "I found a backdoor in the metadata. It's sloppy work."
Behind me, I feel the air move. Gio hovers. He looms. I can feel the heat of his chest at my back, the subtle shift in air pressure as he leans in, trying to get close enough to catch the scent of my hair.
"Talk to me, Genny," Gio says, his voice rumbling against my spine. "What do you need?"
"Time," Genny says, her fingers flying across the keys. "I need you to stall the Sheriff's server for exactly three minutes while I inject the ghost protocol."
"I can do three," Maya says, already typing on her phone. "I'll feed him a distraction story about a domestic disturbance on the north side."
I pull a notebook from my bag, flipping it open to a fresh page. I start scribbling the timeline, cross-referencing the gaps in Gio's statement with the digital footprints Genny is pulling up.
Gio moves behind me. He plants his hands on the back of my chair, his grip tight, boxing me in. The heat of his chest radiates against my spine, a wall of muscle and frustration that he refuses to move. He leans down, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.
"You're being stubborn," he murmurs, the vibration of his voice sinking straight into my bones. "I'm right here."
I don't stop writing. I keep my pen moving, the scratch of the nib loud in the sudden quiet of the room. "And you're in the way," I say, tone flat.
"I'm trying to help," he insists, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "I can give you the names. I know who was in the room."
"We have the names," I say, circling a timestamp. "We need the proof. Go be useful somewhere else."
He presses closer, the denim of his jeans brushing against my arm. Fine. I lean back—just an inch, just long enough for my shoulder blades to meet his chest. A single, deliberate second of contact. Leverage. I feel the sharp hitch of his breath, the way his body goes still like I just put a blade to his throat. Then I roll forward again, breaking it clean, and keep writing like it never happened.
The air between us crackles, thick with unsaid apologies and the weight of the night before. A moment passes, then another. Ihear a soft clink beside me. A ceramic mug, steam curling from its surface, appears on the edge of the coffee table, just within my periphery. Coffee. Black, the way I like it. A peace offering. A silent plea.
I don't look at it. I don't look at him. I just keep writing, my pen scratching a furious rhythm against the paper. The mug sits there, a monument to his failed attempt. I can feel his frustration radiating off him, a palpable wave of heat. He retreats a single step, the pressure on my back easing, but he doesn't leave. I hear him shuffle, then the crinkle of a plastic wrapper. A bright pink highlighter appears next to the mug, placed with the same hesitant hope.
My jaw tightens. I set my pen down with a deliberate click, pick up the highlighter without looking at him, and start marking up my notes. I use it because it's there. It's a tool I'm commandeering. I hear his sharp, quiet inhale, the sound of a man who doesn't know whether to be relieved or infuriated. He's learning that my acceptance is a tactical decision.
"Zoë," he warns, his voice a low rumble of frustration.
I shift my weight, driving my elbow back into his ribs. Hard. He grunts, a sharp exhale of air, and finally stumbles back a step. "Go call Coach," I say, still not looking up. "We need to know if the university is going to fold or fight."
Gio rubs his ribs, shooting me a dark look that doesn't quite land. He turns toward the kitchen island, pulling his phone from his pocket. He taps the screen, hitting speaker before he even lifts it to his ear, and sets it down on the granite so the whole room can hear. It rings twice.
"Addison," Coach's voice crackles through the speaker, clipped and expectant.
"It's Gio," he says, his voice shifting instantly from petulant brat to something sharper. "I need to know where we stand."
"Stand tall," Coach says, the background noise of a whistle blowing cutting through the line. "I just got off the line with the Dean. They're circling, Rossi. They want a scapegoat."
"Let them circle," Gio says, leaning his palms against the counter, his head dropping for a fraction of a second. "We have the proof. We're pushing the narrative now."
"Good. Because I just authorized the legal retainer. Whatever you need, whatever it costs—the university is not throwing you to the wolves. On my watch."
The room goes still. Gio closes his eyes, his throat working on a swallow. When he opens them again, the raw hunger for me is gone, replaced by something heavier, graver. "Thank you, Coach," he says, the words rough, scraping the bottom of his throat. "For standing with me."
"You're part of this team, Gio," Coach cuts him off, sharp and final. "We protect our own. Now let's finish this."
The line clicks dead. Silence stretches, thick and vibrating. Gio stares at the black screen, his chest rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm. He's realizing that this—this room, these people, this man—is what family actually looks like. A shield that holds without asking. But the gravity of the moment doesn't stick. His head lifts, his eyes cutting across the room, bypassing the guys, bypassing Genny, and landing straight on me.
He's still grateful. He's still humbled. He's not whole.
"Schedule it," he says to Maya, his eyes locked on mine. "Drop the bomb."
