“Rossi—Coach wants you in the—” He stalls, eyes flicking to me. “Now.”
“I’m coming,” Gio says, never breaking eye contact.
The trainer backs off fast, like he stepped into something volatile.
Gio lowers his voice. “Eight tomorrow. You show up with your materials.”
I nod once. “I will.”
“And Zoë—” He cuts himself off, breath catching like he almost says something else. Something that isn’t leverage. He resets.Hard. Controlled. “Wear something that makes it impossible for her to pretend you’re a mistake.”
My pulse jumps—annoyed at itself. “You’re giving me wardrobe notes now?” I tilt my head. “Careful, Rossi. That sounds like—”
“Optics,” he interrupts, too fast. Too sharp. “It’s optics.”
I hold him there with my eyes. Not trapping, not forcing—just present. Letting him own what he offered.
“Fine,” I say. “Optics.”
His stare stays on me a beat too long, like the word tastes different in this tunnel than it will in her office. Then he nods once—transaction complete.
“Eight,” he repeats, like a vow he refuses to call one. “Don’t be late.”
The word eight still hums between us like a held note neither of us releases.
Gio stays close.
He also doesn’t step closer.
Which is worse.
The tunnel breathes around us—concrete cold, distant echoes, the ghost of the crowd vibrating through the bones of the building. My body hasn’t caught up to the decision my mouth already made. My pulse keeps trying to renegotiate.
He tilts his head a fraction, studying me the way he does right before a faceoff. Calculating angles. Reading tells.
“This is the part where you walk away,” I say, because naming the rule feels safer than breaking it.
“Yeah,” he answers.
He doesn’t move.
“I know.”
Silence stretches. Dense. Loaded.
I’m suddenly aware of how close his chest is—heat, damp cotton, the faint metallic edge of blood dried somewhere I can’t see. My fingers curl at my sides, useless and aching.
“Zoë,” he says, lower now. Careful. Like the word itself has weight.
I look up.
That’s the mistake.
His gaze drops—just once—to my mouth. Involuntary. Immediate. Gone. But my body clocks it like a flare.
I inhale too sharp.
“If you—” he starts, then stops. Jaw tight. Resetting. “If I touch you right now—”
