Chapter 23
Zoe
The Student Union is a monument to beige mediocrity. A sea of laminate tables and uncomfortable chairs, all bathed in the flat, unforgiving light of a thousand fluorescent panels. It's the perfect place to pretend we're just two students. The lie tastes like ash in my mouth.
I'm already at a table when he arrives. Without looking up, I feel him approach the same way I feel a change in barometric pressure. A shift in the atmosphere that signals a storm. He drops his backpack onto the chair across from me, the thud too loud for the quiet hum of the room.
"You're late," I say, not looking up from my laptop. The spreadsheet for the ethics case study is open, a grid of meaningless numbers.
"I'm here," he says, his voice a low rumble.
He sits, his long legs sprawling under the table, his knee brushing mine.
I pull my leg back, a sharp, reflexive jerk.
The contact was fleeting, but it left a trail of heat, an unwelcome ghost of his hands on my skin in the supply closet.
I hate myself for the way my body remembers.
"The prompt asks us to analyze the conflict between individual autonomy and systemic good," I say, my voice clipped and professional. "I think we should structure it around deontological versus utilitarian frameworks."
He leans forward, his elbows on the table, crowding my space. He smells like cold air and something clean that makes my stomach clench. "That's what everyone's going to do. It's the easy answer."
"It's the right answer," I counter, finally looking at him. His eyes are dark, fixed on mine. "The assignment is to follow instructions."
A flicker of a smirk touches his mouth. "You love following instructions, don't you, Barnes?" The double meaning lands like a punch. Heat crawls up my neck, and I redirect my anger to the screen. "Let's just get this done. I'll take the first section on deontology. You can take utilitarianism."
"No." He reaches across the table, his finger tapping the screen right over the paragraph I was about to copy into a new document.
His hand is close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
My fingers still over the keyboard, I freeze.
"We start with the system. The corporation.
The pressure they were under. That's the interesting part.
The ethics of some middle manager is secondary. "
"That's not the assignment," I say, my voice tighter than before.
"The assignment is a case study," he counters, his finger still on my screen. He's not touching me, but he might as well be. The proximity is a violation. "You study the whole case. The parts that fit into a neat little box come later."
He shifts, and his knuckles brush against my hand.
It's an accident. It has to be. But the jolt that goes through me is violent and immediate—a raw, electric current that shoots straight up my arm and pools low in my belly.
I snatch my hand back as if I've been burned.
Hatred hits first. I hate him for this, for the way my body betrays me, for the way a single, accidental touch can turn my mind to static. Worse, I hate myself for wanting more.
He watches the reaction, his expression unreadable, but his gaze intensifies. He saw it. He knows. The smirk is gone, replaced by a focused, predatory stillness. He's not just working anymore. He's hunting.
Clearing my throat, I make a desperate attempt to regain control. "Fine. We'll do it your way. But I'm writing the section on corporate pressure. You can deal with the fallout."
"Deal," he says, his voice a low, satisfied growl.
We work in a tense, charged silence for the next hour.
The only sounds are the clacking of our keyboards and the rustle of papers.
It's the most productive and agonizing hour of my life.
Every time he shifts, I'm aware of it. Every time he sighs, I feel it in my bones.
The air between us is thick with everything we're not saying.
At some point, he adjusts his chair. It's subtle.
Just a fraction closer. But his knee slides under the table and settles against the inside of mine, trapping it there.
Not pressing. Not rubbing. Just… holding.
A quiet, deliberate claim that makes my breath hitch before I can stop it.
I don't move. Neither does he. Then he leans in, bringing his chair closer with a soft scrape, his knee still there, a constant point of contact I can't escape without making a scene. He points to a line in my document, his arm a solid barrier along my side of the table.
"This part," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
He's not just pointing; he's crowding. His shoulder brushes mine.
I can feel the heat from his chest, a constant, oppressive presence.
His breath ghosts the shell of my ear, and I have to physically stop myself from shuddering.
"You're making it sound like they had a choice. They didn't."
Thought evaporated. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. I force myself to look at the screen, at the words he's indicating. "They're the executives. They always have a choice."
"Sometimes the choice is just how you lose," he murmurs, his lips so close to my ear I can feel the vibration of the word.
He stays there for a beat too long. His knee presses once—barely there, unmistakable—then he withdraws it slowly, deliberately, like he's reminding me that the contact existed because he allowed it. He leans back.
I straighten up, creating a sliver of space between us.
"It's a valid point. I'll revise the wording.
" My voice is strained, thin. I'm losing this game.
He settles into his chair, the distance restored, his expression calm again—but his eyes are dark, satisfied.
He's won this round. And he knows exactly why.
My phone buzzes, a sharp, insistent vibration on the table. I glance down. It's a text from Genny.
*Elm House tonight. You're coming.*
A second later, Gio's phone buzzes. He picks it up, his thumb swiping across the screen. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Dante," he says, by way of explanation, though I didn't ask. "There's a party."
"I know," I say, holding up my phone so he can see Genny's text. It's a summons. From our people. An order.
He stands, grabbing his backpack. "Let's go."
"I'll drive with Genny," I say, starting to pack my own bag.
"No." The word is flat. Absolute. He doesn't raise his voice, but the command is undeniable. "You're with me."
I want to argue. I want to tell him he doesn't get to make decisions for me. But the memory of his hand on mine, the way my body reacted, is still too fresh. I'm not sure I can win a fight with him right now. Not when I'm still fighting myself.
Out of the Union and into the cold night air, I follow him.
He opens the passenger door of his black Camaro, and I slide in.
The cabin is a tight, leather-clad cocoon.
He gets in, and the space shrinks to nothing.
He's everywhere. The scent of him, the heat from his body, the sheer size of him in the driver's seat.
The engine roars to life, a throaty growl that vibrates through the seat and straight up my spine.
He peels out onto the street, the city lights smearing into streaks of color across the windshield.
"This is the first time," he says, his voice low, cutting through the engine's rumble. He doesn't look at me, his eyes fixed on the road. "Together. In public."
"It's a party, Gio. Not a press conference." My voice is tight, but I know what he means. The optics.
"Everyone's seen the blog," he continues, ignoring my deflection.
"They're going to be watching. Looking for a crack.
" He reaches over, his hand resting on the center console, his pinky finger just barely brushing my thigh.
The touch is deliberate this time. A test. "They'll be watching you, Zoe. Wondering if you're fucking a monster."
The word hangs in the air. My breath hitches. I should move my leg. I should tell him to get his fucking hand off me. But the tension coiling in my stomach is so tight, so unbearable, the contact feels like a release valve. A terrible, dangerous one. I don't move.
"They'll be watching me, too," he says, his voice dropping even lower.
He shifts his hand, his palm now flat on the console, his knuckles pressing firmly against my leg.
"Wondering if I'll snap. If I'll drag you into a closet again.
" He glances at me, and the look in his eyes is pure, unadulterated challenge. "We need a story."
My heart is pounding. "A story?"
"Yeah." He turns his attention back to the road, but his hand doesn't move.
The pressure is a constant, grounding point in the chaos of my mind.
"We show up together. We stick together.
We don't leave each other's side. They see us arrive as a unit, and they see us leave as one. It sends a message."
"And what message is that?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"That you're not afraid," he says, his thumb stroking a single, maddening line against my jeans. "And that I'm not alone."
The tension is unbearable. It's a living thing, crawling under my skin.
I need it to stop. I need to break it. On pure, desperate impulse, I move my hand from my lap and let it rest on the center console, my fingers brushing against his.
It's not an invitation. It's a surrender.
A concession that I can't fight this current.
He stills. His thumb stops moving. For a second, the only sound is the engine. Then, he turns his hand over, his fingers lacing through mine. The grip is firm, possessive. A lock. He holds my hand for the rest of the short drive to Elm House, a silent, unbreakable contract signed in the dark.