His gaze flickers to my mouth, then back to my eyes like he’s inventorying tells.
“Game tonight?”
Movement halts. I turn. My face settles into neutrality.
“Is the ice cold?”
His lips curve, restraint built into the smile. “So that’s a yes.”
“Why are you even asking?” I shoot back. “You already know I’ll be there.”
“Just checking,” he says. “I play better with your heckling as background noise.”
A scoff escapes. “You play better because you’re arrogant.”
“Confidence,” he corrects.
“Delusion.”
He laughs, low and easy, and people instinctively make room for him while I keep fighting for inches. Two students veer around us without hesitation, orbiting him like gravity is law.
The imbalance burns hot.
We hit the stairwell—wide concrete, a landing that funnels traffic into a bottleneck. The crowd thickens, bodies weaving in chaotic clusters.
A guy cuts too close, shoulder angling for mine like I’m open space.
Gio moves.
A subtle shift of his frame—hard, immovable—redirects the collision before it lands. No touch. He claims the line, forcing the guy to stumble around him with a muttered curse. Then he steps back into my rhythm like nothing happened, a silent territorial blockade in the middle of the stampede.
The air shifts again.
His gaze settles heavy against my profile. He’s staking ground without asking, posture solid in the chaos. He holds space the way other people hold weapons.
I hate that he decides I require clearance, stepping in like my line won’t hold. It reads as conquest, not assistance.
“Still carrying your whole life in that bag?” he asks, nodding to the tote.
“Portfolio,” I correct, tightening my grip. “Try to keep up.”
“Milan’s coming up.”
My feet lock.
The stop is instinctive—full-body, abrupt—forcing traffic to bunch behind me. Someone swears as they sidestep. I shift one step aside, clearing the path without retreating. Noise churns around us while the pause hums with tension.
“And?” I answer, casual enough to lie.
His gaze drops to my bag, clocking the fabric peeking out, the way my fingers bleach white around the strap. Stress gets logged. Filed.
Damn it, still.
“You’ve been tight all week,” he says. “That explains it.”
The words strike clean and exact.
Breathing recalibrates. Shoulders square. His accuracy needles. Saying it out loud—in public—scrapes raw.
