And there they are again.
Thigh-high boots. Dark brown today. Fitted. Precise. Not flashy. Not careless. A choice not made for attention—and it still gets it.
I fucking hate that I notice every time.
She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t check who’s watching. She moves like the room rearranges itself around her exit.
Cole nudges my shoulder. “Practice.”
I stand, shove my notebook into my bag harder than I need to.
Zoë reaches the door. Light spills around her legs—boots first, then gone.
I move without thinking. “Barnes.”
She stops. Turns just enough to look over her shoulder.
“What.”
Not hey. Not yeah. Just what.
“You always leave before the room clears,” I say.
Her mouth twitches. Amusement, maybe. Or warning. “I don’t like traffic.”
“Liar.”
“Do you need something,” she asks evenly, “or are you narrating my habits now?”
I hesitate.
That’s new.
“Those boots,” I say finally. “You wear them like armor.”
Her eyes flick down. Back up. Calm. Assessing.
“They keep the snakes out,” she says.
Then she turns and walks away.
No apology. No invitation. Just gone.
Cole whistles low. “You’re in deep.”
“Say that again,” I warn.
He grins. “Nah. You heard me.”
I stand there longer than necessary, irritation crawling under my skin—not at her. Not at him. At myself.
I didn’t stop her. I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
The boots are already burned into my head, same as every time she walks away like she expects me to follow—and doesn’t care if I don’t.
That’s the part I can’t get ahead of.
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