Violet’s POV
I'm drowning in responsibilities I'm not entirely qualified for.
The organizational chart has collapsed into something improvised and desperate—me covering for Zachary who's covering for Adison who's stealing whatever hours she can with Jake before he flies back to Texas with half her heart.
I sit across from Zachary in Adison's office, waiting for assignments while he scrutinizes something on his laptop with the focus of someone who needs distraction from his own thoughts.
I watch him and think about the day before yesterday.
The way he put Walter on his knees for insulting me. Like I was someone worth defending. Like my dignity mattered enough to risk professional consequences.
The memory rewrites something fundamental about how I understand my own value.
He looks up suddenly, and I realize I've been staring.
"What are you doing tonight?" His voice carries careful casualness that doesn't quite land.
It's Friday, and the question hangs between us like an invitation he's not sure he's allowed to extend.
"Stealing wine from Adison's collection." I lean back in my chair, trying to match his casual tone. "Watching something mindless. Maybe crying into expensive alcohol while pretending I have my life together."
His mouth quirks slightly. "Want to go to the movies instead?"
The offer catches me completely off guard.
"With you?" I hear myself ask, like there's another option.
"With me." He closes his laptop with deliberate precision. "There's a comedy playing at the AMC on the 68th. We could catch the eight o'clock showing."
I study his face, looking for the careful distance he's been maintaining since the night he sent me home. But it's not there. Just this—honest interest wrapped in uncertainty.
"Is it a date?" The question comes out steadier than I feel.
"Maybe." He holds my gaze, and the word is the most honest answer he's ever given me. "I'm not sure what to call it yet."
The admission does something dangerous to my chest.
"Okay." I stand up before I can overthink it. "Pick me up at seven-thirty?"
"Seven-thirty," he confirms.
* * *
That evening I choose my outfit with surgical precision.
Black jeans that fit perfectly without trying too hard. A silk blouse the color of champagne that's sophisticated but still me. Boots with enough heel to make me feel powerful without looking like I'm performing.
I want him to see me as a woman, not the complicated girl he's been trying to keep at professional distance.
When I slide into his Audi at seven-thirty, his hands tighten on the wheel.
"You look beautiful." The words come out rough, unpolished, and I feel something warm bloom in my chest.
"Thank you." I buckle my seatbelt, hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
He pulls into traffic, and we drive for maybe three minutes before he speaks again.
"You're distracting me." His voice carries confession and warning in equal measure. "I need you to know that."
"From the road?" I turn to look at him.
"From everything." He keeps his eyes forward, but his jaw tightens. "You're sitting next to me and I can barely remember where we're going."
The admission melts something inside me that's been frozen since the night I told him I was a virgin and he chose protection over possession.
"The AMC on 68th," I remind him softly. "You're doing fine."
"I'm really not." But there's something that might be a smile pulling at his mouth.
* * *
At the cinema he buys me everything I want without asking about cost.
Popcorn. Candy. Soda the size of my torso.
"I'm starving," I admit, tearing into the popcorn before we've even found our seats. "Skipped lunch because there was too much to do."
"Violet." His voice carries reproach and concern. "You need to eat."
"I'm eating now." I gesture with a handful of popcorn. "Crisis averted."
He shakes his head but doesn't argue, just guides me toward seats in the middle of the theater where the view is perfect.
The comedy is ridiculous in the best possible way—silly and over-the-top and exactly what my brain needs after days of crisis management.
I laugh without performing.
Comment without censoring myself.
Exist without apologizing for taking up space.
"That guy is an idiot," I whisper during a particularly absurd scene. "Who thinks that's a good plan?"
"Someone who's never had a good plan in their life," Zachary whispers back, and his smile is genuine and unguarded.
I reach for more popcorn at the same time he does, and our hands collide in the bucket. He pulls back immediately, but not before I feel the heat of his skin against mine.
"Sorry," I murmured.
"Don't be." His voice is low, meant only for me. "I like watching you enjoy yourself."
The statement lands in my chest like the truth I've been desperate to hear.
Because he's not watching me perform joy. He's watching me actually experience it—messy and loud and unfiltered—and that's what he wants.
The movie continues, and I keep stealing glances at him. The way he smiles at the ridiculous jokes. The way he relaxes into his seat. The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
Like all of it—the mess and noise and unfiltered enthusiasm—is exactly what he wants.
The realization hits me with devastating clarity. He likes me just the way I am.
Not the version of myself I've been performing for approval. Not the sophisticated girl trying to seem older than nineteen. Just this—honest and hungry and still figuring everything out.
It's the most terrifying and liberating truth anyone has ever offered me.
When the credits roll, we stay seated while the theater empties around us.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For this. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me." He stands, offering his hand to help me up. "I wanted to spend time with you."
I take his hand, and the contact sends electricity straight through my nervous system.
We walk toward the exit, and I'm still holding the empty popcorn bucket like evidence of something I'm not ready to let go of yet.