14. Liam
Liam
“This is mint-chocolate chip,” Zoey said. “If you are anti mint-chocolate chip, you’ll have to leave.”
“I never said I was anti mint-chocolate chip,” I replied.
The show opened with dramatic music and three women arguing about whether someone had stolen someone else’s fiancé.
There were subtitles, slow zooms, and a recap of an argument that that had apparently occurred twelve minutes earlier.
I barely paid attention to any of it because Zoey’s knee was resting against mine.
“Previously on emotionally unregulated adults,” she muttered, her blue hair cascading like a waterfall around her face.
I took a measured bite of ice cream and watched the screen. “Why are they meeting in a restaurant?”
“Because producers encourage public humiliation.”
“That seems cruel.”
“That’s the point of reality television.”
One of the men on screen began shouting. Zoey inhaled sharply and sat up straighter. “Oh, this is where he lies.”
“He hasn’t lied yet.”
She sent me a wry smile. “He is about to.”
The man spoke, and she was right. He lied.
I looked at her. “You knew.”
“I always know. It’s a talent of mine.” Zoey licked more ice cream off her spoon, and I tracked the movement of her tongue. “Here it comes.”
I blinked and turned my attention back to the screen. “What?”
“The revisionist history.”
The man began rewriting the timeline in real time.
I looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “You predicted that.”
“I always do.” She pointed her spoon at the television, dangerously close to slinging melted mint across the couch. “Observe the deflection.”
“I’m observing.”
“He’s not answering the question. He’s reframing it so she feels unreasonable for asking.”
“It’s a strategic move,” I said.
“That’s cowardly.”
She leaned forward further, intent, the line of her neck exposed again, her focus absolute.
I studied the screen, then her. “How do you know what’s coming?”
She gave me a sideways look. “Pattern recognition.”
“From experience?”
“From existing in the world.”
She was animated and completely invested in the drama unraveling on the screen.
Her hair had slipped over one shoulder at some point, and she didn’t fix it.
Her fingers curled loosely around the spoon as she gestured, punctuating her argument about narrative manipulation and fragile masculinity, but I barely heard a word. I was too fascinated by her.
Her knuckles brushed my thigh absentmindedly. She didn’t even notice it, but I did.
“This is not about the fiancée,” she continued, leaning closer to the screen. “This is about power.”
“Everything is about power,” I said.
She stilled for a fraction of a second, then narrowed her eyes at me. “That was an ominous thing to say.”
“Maybe I’m jaded.”
Her mouth twitched at that, and I could see she was cataloging that and filing it away somewhere.
On screen, a drink went flying across the table in a dramatic arc.
Zoey gasped, delighted.
“That is assault,” I said.
“Assault makes for quality television.”
From the back of the couch, Markie yelled, “PROSTITUTION WHORE.”
Zoey didn’t even look away from the screen. She reclaimed the ice cream tub from between us and dug her spoon in with unnecessary force. I watched her wrist flex as she scooped, the motion controlled, the tendons in her hand shifting beneath her skin.
She held the spoon out toward me without looking away from the screen.
“Try this section. Heavy on the chocolate.”
I leaned forward, telling myself I didn’t need to be hyperaware of our proximity. I didn’t need to register the warmth of her thigh pressed against mine or the faint scent of mint and sugar and her shampoo.
My thumb brushed her knuckle as I took the spoon from her.
Her breathing changed slightly. The average human wouldn’t have picked up on it, but my shifter senses did.
Neither of us commented on it.
The host on screen demanded accountability. The man grew louder.
“Why is he still talking?” I asked.
Zoey snorted. “Because no one has told him to stop.”
“I would have.”
She turned her head slowly toward me, questioning. “Would you?”
“Yes.”
“You’d be very calm about it.”
“Yes.”
“And terrifying.”
I shrugged. “Possibly.”
She smiled then, and it was the most open smile she’d directed at me yet. It landed somewhere low and immediate inside me.
Dragging her thumb along the rim of the tub, she caught a streak of melted ice cream. Absently, she brought her thumb to her mouth and licked it clean.
I swallowed hard. She caught me looking.
“What?”
“You missed a spot,” I said evenly.
Her gaze sharpened instantly. “I did?”
“Yes.”
She held my gaze and dragged her thumb slowly along the corner of her mouth, deliberate now.
I kept my posture relaxed. It required effort I didn’t let onto.
“Better,” I said.
Her smile changed.
From his perch, Markie screeched, “WEIRDO!”
Zoey didn’t break eye contact. “He’s stressed,” she said lightly.
“I think he’s observant,” I replied.
On screen, someone began crying.
Zoey inched closer to me without comment. Our thighs pressed together fully now, and the warmth of her body seeped through the fabric. Her shoulder brushed mine.
“Why do you like this?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t like it. It’s a form of escapism.” She took another slow bite and considered her words. “These people,” she said finally, gesturing toward the chaos on screen, “make terrible decisions.”
“That is evident.”
“They implode and self-sabotage. They torch their own lives in high definition.”
“And?”
“And none of it is my problem.”
She leaned back into the couch, but she didn’t create distance. If anything, she settled more firmly against me.
“I spend most of my life anticipating consequences,” she continued. “Mapping outcomes, managing variables, cleaning up after other people.”
I kept quiet, waiting for her to continue.
“With this”—she nodded toward the television—“I get a front-row seat to absolute disaster, and I’m not responsible for any of it.”
“I admit, when you put it like that, it does sound appealing.”
“It’s therapeutic.”
“It looks exhausting, though.”
“It is,” she said. “For them.”
On screen, someone stormed out of the restaurant and a producer chased after them.
Zoey smiled faintly. “They chose to be on the show. They signed contracts and agreed to be ridiculous. That’s the beauty of it.”
“You prefer contained chaos.”
“Yes.”
“And you prefer observing to participating.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the spoon, but her expression was unreadable as she stared at the screen. “Watching reality television reminds me that I’m not obligated to fix everything.”
“You aren’t.”
She huffed quietly. “Tell that to my nervous system.”
As her thigh pressed even closer to mine, her neck drew my attention.
The line from her jaw to her collarbone was clean and unguarded.
There was nothing performative in the way she sat.
No attempt to curate the angle. She was simply there, fully present, fully absorbed in the chaos unfolding on screen.
And I had an immediate, intrusive urge to lean in and press my mouth there.
The thought arrived fully formed.
I didn’t act on it.
The television continued its dramatic escalation. Someone was shouting about betrayal. Someone else was crying into a napkin. But I only vaguely heard it, too caught up in her.
Zoey set the tub of ice cream on the coffee table, then tucked one leg beneath her, angling her body toward me. The shift in movement closed what little distance remained between us.
“This show is all about people wanting something and pretending they don’t,” she said.
The statement hung between us longer than the dialogue on screen.
I cleared my throat. “That seems inefficient.”
“It is.”
“Why not say what you want?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw someone on the screen storming off again, and yet another producer was chasing them. Zoey’s hand rested on the couch cushion between us, close enough that I could reach it without effort. Close enough that the decision not to reach felt purposeful.
“That would be showing vulnerability,” she said lightly.
“And?”
“And I prefer chaos.”
“You don’t.”
She raised an eyebrow in challenge, then sighed. “I prefer control.”
“There we go.”
“And sometimes,” she added, her tone softer now, “it’s easier to watch other people ruin things than risk ruining something yourself.”
The noise from the television seemed distant now.
Markie shuffled on his perch and muttered, “TURN IT OFF.”
Zoey’s gaze flicked toward him, then back to me. Picking up the remote, I lowered the volume instead of killing it completely.
Her hand shifted closer to mine. A subtle adjustment. An invitation.
“I like it when you ask questions,” she said.
“Oh, I have more.”
“Obviously.”
I placed my hand on top of hers, gently rubbing my thumb against hers. Her hand stayed in mine for three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Then she withdrew it.
She muted the television entirely, then stood and gave me a look I hadn’t seen since the night in the hot tub as she stepped between my knees.
My body reacted before my mind caught up, every instinct and nerve going on alert.
She tentatively put her hands on my shoulders, waiting to see if I accepted her touch.
I didn’t move.
Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my shirt.
I let her.
When she saw I wasn’t moving away or shrugging off her touch, she straddled me. Her weight settled against me, the contact full and undeniable.
Every thought in my head vanished, and my focus narrowed to the space where we touched.
Zoey leaned forward, touching her forehead against mine. As she moved, her hair fell over her shoulder. Her chest rose and fell as her breath ghosted over my skin.
“Is this okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said with no hesitation.
Her hands slid from my shoulders to the back of my neck, and I finally closed the distance, brushing my lips over hers.