NOVEL NEXT Chapter 5: Totally Unrelated
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**Zane POV**
Saturday sunlight pooled across the hardwood floors, gilding Sona's silhouette as she sat curled in the bay window. Her fingers traced the embossed cover of *The Art of War*—a nervous tell I'd cataloged weeks ago. The emancipation papers crinkled in my back pocket, their weight lighter than the secret I'd carried since she'd moved in.
"I'm back," I announced, toeing off my sneakers. "Lawyer says I'm officially…"
"Unshackled?" she supplied without looking up.
"*Wealthier.* Apparently dead parents leave better trusts than live ones."
Her page-turn paused. A single strand of hair slipped from its bun. "Level nine rich now?"
"Nine and a *half.*" I flopped onto the window seat, close enough to catch her jasmine perfume. "You'd think money'd make paperwork faster. Instead, I got a lecture on—"
"Zane." Her glasses slid down her nose as she angled toward me. Moonstone eyes, sharp and unnervingly *present.* "There's… something I need to ask."
The grandfather clock's pendulum swung like a metronome. *Tick. Tock. Tick.*
"Hypothetically," she began, knuckles whitening around her book, "if one developed… feelings. For someone… erratic. Unpredictable. *Maddening.*" A swallow. "What would you…"
I leaned in, close enough to count her freckles. "Confess. Worst case, they fake their death and move to Belize."
"This isn't a jok—"
"*Do it.*" My knee brushed hers. "Before the hypothetical target marries a Switch console."
Her breath hitched—a nearly imperceptible fracture in her Sitri armor. Then she stood abruptly, heels clicking toward the kitchen. "Forget I—"
**Kabedon Protocol Initiated**
My palm slapped the wall beside her head, caging her between mahogany panels and my shadow. Her pulse fluttered at her throat, rapid as hummingbird wings.
"Let's clarify." My voice dropped, roughened by the adrenaline singing in my veins. "This… *hypothetical* person. Do they like me? Or is this another Rias-brand disaster?"
Sona's gaze flickered to my lips. "They—*I*—"
"Louder, prez. These ears are clogged with poor life choices."
"**I like you!**" The confession shattered the stillness, raw and jagged. "I—the way you rebuild broken things. How you *notice* when I swap tea brands. Even… even your *ridiculous* gaming rants." Her fists clenched my shirt. "It's infuriating. *Addictive.* I… I…"
The clock stopped. Or maybe I did.
"Nana." My thumb brushed her burning cheek. "Say it again."
"I lo—"
The kiss crashed between us—a collision of pent-up weeks. Her glasses dug into my cheekbone. My back hit the opposite wall. Somewhere, *The Art of War* thudded to the floor, forgotten.
When we surfaced, breathless and disheveled, she murmured against my jaw: "Belize is overrated."
"Already bought the tickets," I lied.
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