“There is no mistake,” I say. “I didn’t do it.”
“I know.”
Two words. Simple. Absolute.
My stare tightens. “You do?”
“I have eyes, Gio. And a brain.” Her voice stays steady. She doesn’t retreat, doesn’t soften it for my comfort. “You drive like an asshole, but you’re careful with other people’s lives. The narrative doesn’t fit the data.”
Something loosens in my chest—just a fraction—and I hate the way it feels like permission.
Belief carries weight. Belief is exposure. That almost-touch is worse than contact. If she’s right, she’s invested. And if she’s invested, I’ve already dragged her closer to the blast radius than I should.
Sending her away would be clean. Telling her to turn around, lock her door, let me absorb the hit alone—smart. Contained.
Instead, I start walking again with her beside me, and I know exactly when the mistake happened.
Back at the bar. When I let them see us instead of disappearing the way they expected.
“It matters what twelve people on a jury believe,” I say, voice rough.
“Then we change the data.”
“How?”
“By becoming the version they can’t dismiss.” She steps closer, invading my space like she’s doing it on purpose. “They think you’re a loose cannon? We show discipline. They think you’re a monster? We show restraint.”
“I’m a hockey player, Zoë.”
She huffs a short laugh. “Exactly.”
My pocket buzzes again—sharp, insistent. A different rhythm. Longer. Heavier. The kind that doesn’t stop after one hit.
I ignore it. Anyone watching reads what she reads instead: the tightening in my shoulders, the recalibration in my stride, thebrief fracture in focus before it snaps back into place. They think they can manage me. They think they can contain the fallout.
We keep moving.
Dorms loom ahead—brick monuments full of kids who think they’re untouchable because they paid for the privilege. Zoë’s building is the third over. Quiet. The wrong kind of quiet. The kind that doesn’t come from peace. It comes from listening.
Going up there isn’t an option. Her space sits too close to the bone. Too intimate. If I cross that threshold, control won’t stop at proximity. It’ll reach into everything that touches her next.
“We stop here,” I say, halting at the base of the steps.
“You’re not coming up?”
“No.”
“Scared?”
“Careful.”
She tilts her head, cataloging tells like she’s watching a live experiment. “You’re hiding something.”
Not a question. A conclusion. She didn’t see a screen. She saw the pause. The tension. The mid-conversation adjustment.
“Everyone hides something.”
“Not me.”
