LEO'S POV
The moment stretched between us like a taut string, and I could feel myself getting lost in her dark eyes. Zoe's hands were still cradling mine, gentle and warm, and something dangerous was stirring in my chest.
I jerked my hand away so fast that the wrist brace caught on her finger.
"Sorry," I muttered, pulling both hands into my lap and looking anywhere but at her face. "I'm sorry, that was—"
"It's okay," she said quickly, but her voice sounded breathless.
I cleared my throat and glanced at my watch, desperate for something normal to focus on. "We have class in ten minutes."
"Right. Class." She moved to the chair across from my desk, her movements careful and deliberate. "Should we start with the Chopin piece or—"
"Actually," I interrupted, flexing my fingers inside the brace. The pain was still there, sharp and persistent. "I don't think I'm going to be able to teach today."
She looked up at me, concerned. "Is your hand worse?"
"It's not great." I stood up slowly, testing my grip. "I think I need to see my physiotherapist."
"Oh." She grabbed her bag from the floor. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was that bad."
"You should go see your doctor," she said, standing up. "Don't worry about class. We can make it up later."
I nodded and started gathering my things with one hand, trying to ignore the way my wrist throbbed with each movement.
"I can drive you," she said suddenly.
"What?"
"To your appointment. I can drive you."
"That's not necessary. I can manage."
"Can you?" She looked pointedly at my hand. "Can you really grip a steering wheel right now?"
I tried to make a fist and winced. She was right, but admitting it felt like admitting defeat.
"I'll be fine."
"Professor Mercer." She stepped closer to my desk. "Let me help you."
"It's not appropriate for a student to—"
Before I could finish the sentence, she grabbed my car keys from where I'd set them on the desk.
"Hey—"
"Either I drive you, or you call a cab," she said, holding the keys just out of my reach. "Those are your options."
I stared at her for a moment, torn between frustration and something that might have been admiration. She was stubborn as hell, but she was also probably right.
"Fine," I said.
****
The drive to the physical therapy clinic was quiet except for Zoe's occasional directions to turn left or right. She drove carefully, checking her mirrors constantly and keeping both hands firmly on the wheel. It occurred to me that I'd never been a passenger in a car with a student before. Hell, I'd never been alone in a car with any woman except Elena.
The thought of Elena made my chest tighten, and I forced myself to focus on the road ahead.
"How long have you been seeing a physical therapist?" Zoe asked as we pulled into the clinic parking lot.
"Since the accident. About three years now."
"Does it help?"
"Sometimes." I unbuckled my seatbelt with my good hand. "Dr. Martinez says I'll probably always have some limitations, but the exercises keep it from getting worse."
"That must be frustrating."
"It is what it is."
She parked the car and looked at me. "Do you want me to wait here, or—"
"You don't have to wait at all. You can take the car back to campus. I'll call a cab when I'm done."
"I'm not leaving you here without a ride."
"Zoe—"
"I'll wait in the lobby. I brought a book."
I wanted to argue, but the truth was, I was grateful she was there. The pain in my wrist was making it hard to think clearly, and the idea of navigating public transportation after a therapy session didn't sound appealing.
"Okay," I said. "Thank you."
****
When I walked out to the reception area, Zoe was exactly where she said she'd be, curled up in one of the waiting room chairs with a paperback novel. She looked up when she saw me and smiled.
We walked to the car in comfortable silence.
"Are you hungry?" I asked as we got in the car.
"Starving, actually." As if on cue, her stomach grumbled loudly enough for me to hear.
I raised an eyebrow at her, and she looked mortified.
"Sorry," she said, her cheeks turning pink. "I skipped lunch."
I found myself laughing—actually laughing—for the first time in weeks. "Don't apologize. Let's find somewhere to eat."
She drove us to a small restaurant a few blocks from the clinic, the kind of place with checkered tablecloths and a menu written on a chalkboard. We found a booth in the back, and I slid in across from her.
"This is nice," she said, looking around. "Very... normal."
We ordered food and talked about everything and nothing in particular. She told me about growing up with Marcus, about feeling caught between the classical training he insisted on and the jazz that called to her soul.
I found myself sharing stories about my own childhood, about the pressure of being labeled a prodigy, about the loneliness of a life spent practicing while other kids played.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asked. "Performing?"
"Every day."
"Maybe you could try again. Your hand seems better than you think it is."
"It's not that simple, Zoe."
"Why not?"
I was quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to explain the weight of grief and guilt that had settled on my chest after the accident.
"Can I ask you something?" she said suddenly.
"Sure."
"Will you tell me about Elena?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "How do you know that name?"
"Marcus mentioned her. Today, during our fight."
I felt anger flare in my chest. "He had no right—"
"Was she your fiancée?"
I stared down at my untouched beer, wishing I could disappear. "Yes."
"What happened to her?"
"She died in the same accident that damaged my hand." The words came out flat and emotionless, the way I'd practiced saying them to therapists and doctors.
"I'm sorry."
"It was my fault."
"Leo—"
"I was driving. We were coming back from a concert, and I was tired, and I didn't see the other car until it was too late."
Zoe reached across the table and touched my good hand. "That doesn't make it your fault."
"Doesn't it?"
"Accidents happen. That's why they're called accidents."
I pulled my hand away. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"Okay." She was quiet for a moment, then picked up her wine glass. "Can I ask you something else?"
"What?"
"Will you have a drink with me?"
"I don't drink."
"Ever?"
"Not since the accident."
She nodded and took a sip of her wine. Then another. Then she signaled the waitress for another glass.
"Zoe—"
"I can't face Marcus sober," she said, her words already starting to slur slightly. "Not after today. Not after what he had said about my mother."
"Getting drunk isn't going to solve anything."
"Maybe not. But it might make it hurt less."
I watched her drink the second glass of wine faster than the first, then order a third. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were brighter than usual.
"I think you've had enough," I said when she started on the fourth glass.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're drunk."
"So what if I am?"
"So I'm not letting you drink anymore." I stood up and pulled out my wallet. "We're leaving."
"Leo—"
"Now, Zoe."
I paid the check and came around to her side of the booth to help her up. She was more unsteady than I'd expected, and I had to steady her with my good arm.
"Come on," I said. "Let's get you home."
She looked up at me, her dark eyes unfocused but somehow still intense.
"You're a good man, Leo Mercer," she said softly.
Before I could respond, she wrapped her arms around my neck, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to mine.
The kiss was soft and wine-sweet and completely unexpected. For just a moment, I let myself sink into it, let myself feel the warmth of her mouth against mine.