Now it’s just us.
Zoë traces the rim of her wine glass, fingertip moving in slow, methodical circles. Calm. Too calm. She looks like she’s waiting for a critique in a design studio, not sitting in a hockey bar surrounded by people who think I’m a felon.
I watch her. Can’t help it.
Sharp edges and clean lines cut her out of the blur of noise. Her tote rests on the bench beside her, a brick of leather and fabric holding her whole life. Still. Present. Just… existing.
And it gets under my skin.
I won the negotiation. I got the shield. Sitting here, watching the low light catch the curve of her jaw, makes one thing clear: I don’t control her. I don’t control anything. She’s here by choice, agency anchoring her in place. Choice weighs heavier than obedience.
“You’re staring,” she says, without looking up.
“I’m observing.”
“There’s a difference.”
“I know.” I lean forward, forearms on the sticky tabletop. “You’re relaxed. People are whispering ten feet away, and you’re acting like you’re waiting for a bus.”
“I’m ignoring them,” she says, finally meeting my eyes. Cool. Assessing. “It’s a skill.”
“I don’t ignore things.”
“Then what is this?” She gestures between us.
“This is where I decide what matters,” I say, letting the words sit. No polish. “And what doesn’t.”
Her mouth curves—not a smile. Recognition. “You really see everything as a battlefield.”
I let the truth stand. “Look around.”
My phone buzzes against the table. Once. Sharp.
I don’t glance, but my pulse shifts. Screenshots. Threads mutating. People deciding they know everything. Reputation damage. Containable.
Zoë’s gaze drops to the device. “You going to get that?”
“No.”
“It might matter.”
“Noise.”
The phone buzzes again. This one lands heavier, edged with administrative weight. Official messages don’t panic; they queue. Departments loop in. Names get CC’d.
This time, she watches my face instead of the screen. “That didn’t feel like noise.”
I don’t answer.
She reaches out, fingers hovering over the phone. “If we’re doing this—if I’m standing next to you—I need to know what’s turning.”
I move before she closes the distance, covering the phone with my hand. Our fingers brush. Her skin cool. Mine hot. The contact spikes through my restraint, sharp enough to lock my jaw.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
Because the next escalation won’t stay mine. Because institutions hunt pressure points. Because leverage fractures when it spreads sideways.
