Chapter 7
Gio
Istep into the lecture hall, and the air conditioning bites through my hoodie like it’s got a grudge.
Too cold. Too loud. Too many bodies packed into rows that don’t quite fit the number of opinions in the room.
Everyone’s performing belonging—pretending they aren’t tracking who sits where, who talks, who gets listened to.
I scan the rows without meaning to.
Front row.
Zoe.
Of course.
Front and open. Upright. Visible. She sits with her laptop out like a weapon, shoulders loose, spine straight, already engaged, already clocking the room the way people do when they expect to be called on and aren’t afraid of it.
This place adjusts to her without her asking.
Chairs scrape quieter around her. A couple conversations die mid-sentence.
Even the professor’s cadence shifts a fraction when his eyes land on her.
It irritates me. Immediate. Sharp.
She belongs here. The space fits her the way it fits people who never have to fight for the chair.
She answers a question without looking back—voice clean, unhesitating—and a few people around her nod like she just handed them permission to understand something. Meanwhile, I’m doing mental math on how many weeks into the semester we are and how badly I should’ve read the syllabus by now.
I slide into a seat toward the back.
Deliberately.
Away from her.
Doesn’t help.
My focus splits whether I want it to or not—half on the professor, half on the way Zoe flips her hair back over one shoulder without breaking concentration. Her gaze stays forward. She doesn’t check who’s watching.
The air thickens anyway, pressure settling low and heavy in my chest like the room holds its breath around her.
I’m not the only one who feels it.
That’s the problem.
“Rossi.” The professor’s voice cuts through the low hum, steady and present. Enough to snap a few heads in my direction. “You with us?”
A couple students snicker. Curious.
I nod once. Too slow. Attention clings longer than it should, like people are weighing something. Measuring how I look today against whatever version of me they’ve been fed.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Good,” he replies, already turning back to the board. “Let’s get started.”
Quick check-in. Small correction. I exhale through my nose and shift in my seat, ribs protesting as I settle. The bruise along my side pulls tight, a dull reminder of yesterday’s practice. Tuesday. Midday. Body still humming from morning lifts, brain running half a step behind.
I adjust anyway, like movement will shake the awareness loose.
It doesn’t.
She’s still there. Front row. Impossible to ignore.
“Today we’re talking about leverage,” the professor says, writing the word on the board.
Leverage.
The word lands wrong. Low and hard, like a check I didn’t see coming. Breath gone for half a second. My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
It isn’t theory right now. It’s a live wire. It’s the reason my phone stays face-down. The reason conversations stop when I walk into rooms. The reason people keep looking at me like they’re waiting for confirmation of something ugly.
Someone knows the truth. Or enough of it to weaponize.
A placement hit dressed up as gossip.
A rumor dropped in the right ears at the right time, sharp enough to draw blood without ever being traced back to the hand that threw it.
He knows what it costs me to correct it. Knows that if I push back too hard, I don’t just defend myself—I torch people who don’t deserve it.
That’s leverage.
Ugly. Coercive. Nothing like the clean definition sitting on the board in block letters.
And somehow, ten rows ahead of me, Zoe navigates this room like oxygen. The structure bends toward her competence. She doesn’t fight for room. She occupies it.
Meanwhile, I float, unmoored, reputation doing half the talking for me whether I want it to or not.
I drag my attention back when the professor starts outlining a case study. I catch pieces. Enough to track the logic. Enough to contribute if I have to.
I keep my eyes forward.
Her presence lands anyway—pressure in my line of sight, the wrong kind of heat under my skin.
When she speaks again, it’s because the professor opens the floor, not because he’s calling her out. She raises a hand once—minimal, precise—and when he nods, she stands.
She takes her time and owns the pause.
“Leverage is about control,” she says, voice even, carrying without effort. “It’s about understanding where power sits in a situation—and what it costs to use it.”
The room stills.
She doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t need to.
The line lands like it was aimed anyway. My grip tightens around my pen, knuckles whitening before I notice.
Every word she says lands clean. No filler. No hedging. She brings intelligence into the room like a tool and uses it with intent.
That’s what gets under my skin.
She knows exactly what she’s worth in here, and she doesn’t soften it for anyone’s comfort.
I shouldn’t be watching.
I am.
There’s something dangerous about the way she stands there—calm, unbothered—like she already accounted for every angle of response. Like she knows who holds power and refuses to pretend otherwise.
The professor nods, invites discussion. A few hands go up. Someone fumbles through a half-formed example.
Zoe sits back down, already writing, already moved on.
The pressure doesn’t ease.
“Rossi.”
This time it’s quieter. Not the professor.
Cole, a couple seats over, leans in just enough to keep his voice low. “You’re vibrating.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
He snorts under his breath. “Just saying. Try not to glare a hole through the back of her head.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re cataloguing,” he says. “Which is worse.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s not wrong, and because the last thing I need is him clocking how tight my focus has gone.
The lecture rolls on. Case studies. Hypotheticals.
I contribute when it makes sense—measured, on point, no grandstanding. A couple people glance my way with new interest. Smart jock surprises them.
Fine.
Let them recalibrate.
Zoe doesn’t look back.
That keeps the heat coiled tight instead of burning off.
At some point—too quiet to be accidental—I murmur her name.
“Barnes.”
She doesn’t react at first. Keeps writing. Makes me wait.
Then she lifts her gaze just enough to acknowledge me. One brow arches. Impatient. Sharp.
“You owe me notes for the group project,” I say, low and controlled. “When do I get them?”
Her mouth curves—measuring, weighing.
“The ones you didn’t read the instructions for?” she asks. “I’ve got my own deadlines, Rossi. You aren’t high on my list.”
Heat flashes, unwanted and immediate.
Not anger.
Something lower.
I lean back, stretch my legs, pretend I’m unaffected. “Just figured you’d appreciate the irony.”
She smirks—quick, surgical. “I appreciate preparation. Try that next time.”
“Careful,” I say. “That tone gets people in trouble.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat too long. Long enough to feel deliberate.
“I’m not the one skating on thin ice,” she replies.
Then she turns away.
Conversation over.
On her terms.
The absence hits harder than the exchange did. The room feels quieter without her attention angled my way. I don’t chase it. I let the space sit, tension humming under my skin where it doesn’t belong.
A few rows up, someone murmurs her name. Not subtle.
“Barnes already gets this stuff,” a guy says. “Probably has something lined up. Internships. Connections.”
Wrong.
Too clean. Too confident.
I don’t look at her right away. I watch the room instead—how easily people accept the explanation that makes excellence comfortable. How quickly competence gets reframed as advantage you didn’t earn.
When I finally glance her way, she’s still writing. Expression neutral. No correction. No defense. She lets the lie stand.
Not because it helps her.
Because correcting it costs time. Energy. Space she doesn’t owe anyone.
That’s when it clicks.
They don’t respect her because they think she’s connected. They respect her because she refuses to waste breath proving she isn’t.
That also means they’ll turn on her fast if the story shifts.
The professor asks a general question.
I answer without hesitation, voice steady.
“Leverage isn’t insulation,” I say. “Assuming someone’s protected is how you miss the real risk.”
A few heads turn. The room recalibrates again.
Zoe doesn’t look at me.
Which means she heard it.
Good.
Class ends in a rush of scraping chairs and relief. The room exhales like it’s been underwater.
I stay seated longer than necessary, pen idle in my hand, watching Zoe pack with the same efficiency she brings to everything else.
Then she stands.
And there they are again.
Thigh-high boots. Dark brown today. Fitted. Precise. Not flashy. Not careless. A choice not made for attention—and it still gets it.
I fucking hate that I notice every time.
She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t check who’s watching. She moves like the room rearranges itself around her exit.
Cole nudges my shoulder. “Practice.”
I stand, shove my notebook into my bag harder than I need to.
Zoe reaches the door. Light spills around her legs—boots first, then gone.
I move without thinking. “Barnes.”
She stops. Turns just enough to look over her shoulder.
“What.”
Not hey. Not yeah. Just what.
“You always leave before the room clears,” I say.
Her mouth twitches. Amusement, maybe. Or warning. “I don’t like traffic.”
“Liar.”
“Do you need something,” she asks evenly, “or are you narrating my habits now?”
I hesitate.
That’s new.
“Those boots,” I say finally. “You wear them like armor.”
Her eyes flick down. Back up. Calm. Assessing.
“They keep the snakes out,” she says.
Then she turns and walks away.
No apology. No invitation. Just gone.
Cole whistles low. “You’re in deep.”
“Say that again,” I warn.
He grins. “Nah. You heard me.”
I stand there longer than necessary, irritation crawling under my skin—not at her. Not at him. At myself.
I didn’t stop her. I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
The boots are already burned into my head, same as every time she walks away like she expects me to follow—and doesn’t care if I don’t.
That’s the part I can’t get ahead of.