I shouldn’t be watching.
I am.
There’s something dangerous about the way she stands there—calm, unbothered—like she already accounted for every angle of response. Like she knows who holds power and refuses to pretend otherwise.
The professor nods, invites discussion. A few hands go up. Someone fumbles through a half-formed example.
Zoë sits back down, already writing, already moved on.
The pressure doesn’t ease.
“Rossi.”
This time it’s quieter. Not the professor.
Cole, a couple seats over, leans in just enough to keep his voice low. “You’re vibrating.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
He snorts under his breath. “Just saying. Try not to glare a hole through the back of her head.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re cataloguing,” he says. “Which is worse.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s not wrong, and because the last thing I need is him clocking how tight my focus has gone.
The lecture rolls on. Case studies. Hypotheticals.
I contribute when it makes sense—measured, on point, no grandstanding. A couple people glance my way with new interest. Smart jock surprises them.
Fine.
Let them recalibrate.
Zoë doesn’t look back.
That keeps the heat coiled tight instead of burning off.
At some point—too quiet to be accidental—I murmur her name.
“Barnes.”
She doesn’t react at first. Keeps writing. Makes me wait.
Then she lifts her gaze just enough to acknowledge me. One brow arches. Impatient. Sharp.
“You owe me notes for the group project,” I say, low and controlled. “When do I get them?”
Her mouth curves—measuring, weighing.
“The ones you didn’t read the instructions for?” she asks. “I’ve got my own deadlines, Rossi. You aren’t high on my list.”
Heat flashes, unwanted and immediate.
Not anger.
Something lower.
