Page 118 of Make the Play

“Mm.” I nod, twisting the cap off my water bottle. “Client from hell. Took me twenty minutes to convince a guy not to pose shirtless with a python for his brand campaign.”

His brow lifts. “I mean… what if he’s onto something?”

“If you ever suggest it for a Storm shoot, I’m quitting.”

“Okay, but what if it’s a cool python? Like, chill and emotionally well-adjusted?”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you… have a fantasy involving a snake?”

He grins, eyes warm. “That is a loaded question, but my only real fantasy involves you not looking at me like I just asked you to attend a reptile convention.”

I try not to smile, I really do. “You’re annoying, you know that, right?”

“And yet you continue to live here.”

“You basically forced me to move in.”

“For your safety,” he says, mock-stern.

“Right. Because when I think ‘safe,’ I think your condo.”

Everywhere feels safe when I’m with you.

“Excuse you,” he says, grabbing a water from the fridge. “This condo has snacks, security, and”—his gaze flicks over me again—“clearly a great wardrobe selection.”

I flip him off. He grins wider.

“For your safety,” he echoes again, a little softer now. “Anything new I should know about?”

Shaking my head, I take a sip of water. “I haven’t had any new messages since the day after I was followed.”

His jaw works for a second, the mention of it clearly scratching something raw, but he reins it in and nods slowly.

I clear my throat. “How was your day?”

He shrugs. “Camp’s camp. My legs are dead. Got screamed at for twenty minutes about breakout timing.”

“Wow, fun.”

“You know what really gets the blood flowing?” he deadpans. “Drills, followed by high-def footage of your mistakes, slowed down and narrated like a crime documentary.”

I snort, and he grins again, something quieter behind it now. A version of himself he saves just for me, not dissimilar from thislife we accidentally built while we were busy pretending it wasn’t real.

“You eating here tonight?”

I nod slowly. “Unless you want space.”

Chase’s head jerks back, perplexed. “Why would I want space?”

I don’t have a good answer, not one I’m brave enough to say out loud. I shift my weight and look at the flowers again.

“I don’t know. You’ve been…”

Soft around the edges. Steady. Suspiciously patient, waiting for me to catch up.

“You’ve been training. I know it’s a lot.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just finishes chewing and tosses the wrapper in the trash. Then he walks over to the sink to rinse his hands, moving with that calm, deliberate steadiness he’s been wearing since the festival.

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