Page 119 of Make the Play

When he turns back, he’s frowning.

“If I didn’t want you here, Zo, you wouldn’t be here.”

That shouldn’t hit like it does. I nod once and look at the flowers again.

“I keep waiting for you to bring it up,” I say quietly. “The tent.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stiffen or shift or give me even a flicker of discomfort. Just watches me with that same unreadable softness that’s been wrecking me lately.

Which is fucking unnerving, because somehow, due to one kiss-turned-squirting incident in a goddamn tent, the tables have turned. I’m the one flustered now, dying in real time every minute he’s near. And Chase Walton is cool as a fucking cucumber.

The worst part isn’t that he hasn’t brought the tent up, it’s that I can’t stop thinking about it. Not because of the orgasms—though,Jesus—but because of this grounded version of him that keeps proving me wrong that we’d never make sense together.

“I didn’t wanna push you.” He shrugs, mouth tilted but serious. “I figured if you wanna talk about it, you would.”

“Butyoudidn’t?”

“No,” he says simply. “Because I already know what it meant to me.”

Something cracks under my ribs, and my throat locks. I have no idea how to respond to that, and he doesn’t fill the silence, either. Doesn’t try to soften it, just lets the weight of what he said sit between us.

“So, you’re just gonna… wait?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Zo.” His voice is soft. Certain. A promise he doesn’t even flinch delivering. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, I’ll wait.”

My mouth opens to respond, with what I don’t know. Thank you? Sorry? Don’t be fucking absurd? I know what old Zoe would do. She’d deflect. Joke and mask over the emotion. But right now, that feels brittle. It feels dishonorable when I’m clinging to a feeling I have absolutely no idea what to do with.

But before I can short-circuit entirely, he steps closer, the scent of citrus soap and clean cotton making my stomach twist. Blue eyes lock on mine for a beat, then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head.

“Order whatever you want for dinner,” he murmurs, stepping back again. “Just don’t Venmo me back this time.”

Then he disappears down the hallway, out of reach again, leaving the smell of his shampoo and the ghost of his mouth behind.

I stand there for a long time, holding a bottle of water I’ve barely drunk from, staring at the flowers I suddenly want to throw out the window.

Because this man is killing me with kindness. And patience. And understanding.

I used to think the risk was the fall, but I think I’ve already done that part. I was so sure I’d know when it happened, that it would feel big and obvious and terrifying. Instead, it’s been this slow, infuriating unraveling. One cup of coffee. A hideous antique lamp. Arms wrapped around me in a crowd. One goddamn carnation at a time.

Now I’m here, in his kitchen, wondering what happens if I let go of the edge and stop pretending I’m not already halfway down.

And, horrifyingly, I think he noticed it before I did.

Worse, he appears to be waiting at the bottom, ready to catch me.

Chapter twenty-four

God forbid you sit still and have a feeling

Chase

Fresh from my early morning run, I notice Zoe curled up on the world’s tiniest couch, scrolling her phone. She’s sipping from the mug I got her weeks ago that saysMy girlfriend is hotter than this coffeeon the side. She claims it’s tacky, says it gives her the ick.

But it’s the only one I’ve seen her drink from.

I don’t know why that does things to my chest, but it does. It’s an admission without the weight. A silent declaration she hasn’t claimed yet.

She doesn’t look up when I toe off my sneakers and walk over with a paper-wrapped bouquet and two takeaway cups balanced in one hand, setting them down on the coffee table in front ofher. I purposefully chose my running route so I could pick them up on the way back.

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