“That’s it, isn’t it?” Zach asks, dipping his chin to try to catch my gaze.
I turn away.
“I didn’t—”
“But you didn’t deny it, either,” he cuts in. His hand on my waist shifts. “You want to pretend we’re done? Fine. Talk like you’re done with me.Lookat me like you’re done with me.”
I can’t.
The silence stretches between us as we awkwardly sway.
His thumb presses lightly into my hip.
“Look at me, Honeycomb,” he says, quieter now.
I can’t.
I don't answer. Instead, I stare down at his impeccable shoes. I can hear the whispers. People are talking about us, and my anxiety kicks in.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
Before I can react, he’s guiding me off the dance floor, away from the rest of the guests.
“Zach,” I whisper, but he doesn’t slow. His jaw is set as he walks me off the dance floor, toward a hallway. When we’rethere, we pass the kitchen, full of staff cleaning up, and a couple of storage rooms.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my breath catching as I do my best not to trip over my shoes.
He doesn’t even look back. “Somewhere private, where no one’s watching, so I can remind you exactly what it cost us when you walked away from me.”
My heart pounds in my chest, but I don't try to stop him.
When we reach the bathroom, he pushes the door open with one hand and pulls me inside with the other. The lock clicks, and I step back until I'm braced against the vanity with nowhere to go.
Zach follows, placing a hand on either side of my hips, caging me in. He leans in, his eyes mapping my face.
I watch him, my body on high alert.
“Zach. What are you doing?”
“Just missed looking at you,” he says softly.
“See anything new?” I ask dryly, looking down at the void between us.
“Nope. You still look like home.”
I scoff. “You can't keep saying things like that, Z.” I lift my hand and press my palm against his chest to put some space between us, but the push is halfhearted at best. He brings his hand to rest on top of mine.
“See, you keep telling me what I can and can't do,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against my wrist, “but the truth is, you’ve never really tried to stop me.”
I haven’t, but isn’t that my biggest flaw? That I’ll happily take the easiest way out instead of putting in the work?
“I won’t stop you from leaving, Honeycomb. I never have.” His hand squeezes mine before it falls away, and he takes a step back, waiting for me to move. Daring me to.
My heels scuff against the floor, teasing the possibility, but I don’t move.
I want to—I think—but there’s something stopping me this time.
I raise my chin, and as our eyes connect, a slow grin pulls across his face.
