Ch33

NOVA

Enzo’s jaw tightens just enough for a muscle to flex against his cheekbone. He straightens up, stepping back. His face goes completely blank.

"I don't care," Enzo says.

My heart sinks. "Okay," I whisper.

I don't wait for him to say anything else. Wrapping my arms around myself, I walk past him toward the entrance of the kitchen. My steps feel heavy, the silence in the house pressing down on my shoulders with every inch I put between us. But as my hand touches the edge of the doorframe, I stop.

I can't just walk away.

I turn around slowly, looking back at him. Enzo is still standing by the counter, staring at the dark window, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Enzo?" I call softly.

He doesn't answer, doesn't even turn his head.

"Enzo, I'm sorry," I say, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm really, really sorry."

He lets out a short, quiet exhale through his nose, his gaze remaining fixed on the glass. "Got it."

"Please..." I swallow past the lump in my throat, taking a half-step back into the room. "Please don't hate me."

That finally makes him look at me. His eyes are cold, hollowed out by a dark frustration I can't reach no matter how hard I try. He just stares, saying nothing.

"If there's anything I can do. Anything at all to make this right, just tell me. Please."

"There's nothing," Enzo says.

I take a shaky breath, letting my shoulders slump as the final bit of hope drains out of me. "Okay."

I turn back toward the hallway, ready to retreat to my room and lock the door for the rest of the night.

"Wait."

I stop, slowly looking over my shoulder.

Enzo has turned around completely now, his eyes locked on mine with a restless energy.

"Get ready," he says. "We're going to a party."

I blink, thrown off balance by the turn. "A... a party?"

"Yeah. A party." He crosses his arms again, looking me up and down. "You have ten minutes."

"Wait, right now? Whose party?" I ask, my brow furrowing as I take in his rigid posture. "Enzo, it's late, and we have school tomorrow..."

"Do you want to fix this or not?" he interrupts, his voice dropping. "Or was all that bullshit about doing 'anything' just talk?"

"No! No, I meant it," I say quickly, holding up my hands. "It's not just talk."

"Then go upstairs and get ready."

I hesitate, looking down at my clothes. "What... what am I supposed to wear?"

Enzo’s lips curve into a faint smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. "Just look hot."

"Okay," I say quietly. "Okay, ten minutes."

I don't give him a chance to change his mind. I spin around and take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs for a completely different reason now. I burst into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me, and rush straight for the wardrobe.

"Look hot," I mutter under my breath, yanking the double doors open so hard the wood groans. "What does that even mean to him?"

I aggressively shuffle through the clothes hanging on the rack, pulling out two options that feel party-appropriate. In my left hand, I hold a simple emerald-green slip dress that reaches mid-thigh. In my right, a black long-sleeved bodycon dress with a slight cutout at the waist.

I turn toward the full-length mirror, holding the green dress against my frame, then swapping it for the black one, trying to decide which one looks less like I'm trying too hard.

The sound of footsteps echo down the hall before my bedroom door is suddenly shoved open without a knock.

I gasp, jumping back and whipping around to face the doorway.

Enzo fills the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame as his eyes sweep over me, taking in the mess of clothes I've tossed onto the bed and the two dresses in my hands.

"You're taking too long," he says.

"I've been up here for seconds!" I argue, tossing my hair over my shoulder. "I'm trying to pick a dress. Which one?" I hold both up in front of me again. "The green or the black?"

Enzo doesn't even look at the fabrics. He just flicks his eyes up to mine, his expression unimpressed.

"Not any of those," he says.

I drop my arms, staring at him. "What do you mean, 'not any of those'? These are literally the only decent party dresses I have."

He pushes off the doorframe and strolls into my room. He walks straight past me to the wardrobe, shoving my two dress options out of the way as his long fingers begin systematically sliding my hangers down the metal rod.

"That one's too bright," he mutters, flicking past a red sundress. "That one looks like something my grandmother would wear to church," he adds, dismissively shoving a navy shift dress aside.

"Hey! That's a nice dress!" I protest, stepping up beside him and trying to pull his hand away from my clothes. "And why do you even care so much what I wear anyway?"