Last Call at the Zombie Pool

The margarita had gone warm an hour ago, but Maya kept nursing it anyway. Around the hotel pool, the tech conference attendees were in full swing — shirts untucked, ties loosened, the kind of collective exhaustion that made everyone look like the walking dead. Zombies, really, running on caffeine and desperation.

She spotted him then: the fox from the morning keynote, sleek and predatory in his tailored suit, weaving through the crowd with that practiced charm that made people lower their guard. Liam. The man who'd ghosted her three months ago after six dates and one spectacular night.

"Running away from me?" His voice materialized at her shoulder, warm against the humidity. "Or just running late?"

Maya set her glass down on the concrete. "Just enjoying the view from the shallow end."

"We were good together." He stepped closer, his hand finding her waist, his palm warm against her bare skin. "Don't pretend you didn't feel it too."

She turned to face him, really seeing him this time — the way his eyes kept darting toward the hotel entrance, the slight tremor in his hand. The same man who'd disappeared without a word, now acting like nothing had changed.

"You know what they say about second chances, Liam. They're like betting on a dead horse at the zombie pool table. The house always wins."

He laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Always so clever. That's what I loved about you."

"Loved. Past tense."

Around them, the party continued — more drinks, more forced laughter, more people pretending this wasn't just another networking event where connections were measured in LinkedIn requests and shallow conversations. Maya stood, gathering her clutch.

"I'm not running, Liam," she said, stepping away from his touch. "I'm just done being the prey."