Page 122 of Make the Play

“You okay?” I ask gently.

She waves a hand in the air. “Fine. Emotionally compromised by a father-daughter trend. I’ll live.”

I nod slowly. “Didn’t think TikTok would be the thing to break you.”

“Yeah, well.” Her mouth quirks. “Surprise. I’m sentimental. But don’t tell anyone, I’ve got a brand to maintain.”

“I won’t,” I say. “But if you ever want to talk about him, or your Gran… I’ll listen.”

She goes still at my words, so I keep going.

“I know I’m not the guy for emotional breakthroughs, but…” I rub the back of my neck. “You helped me. That night, with the breathing and counting stuff. I’ve been trying it since, and… it works. So if you ever need to vent, or yell, or throw something at someone, or just…breathe. I’m here. To return the favor.”

Her expression shifts, softening in that rare and beautiful way I almost never see, but she still deflects. “You’re really going hard on this supportive boyfriend thing, huh?”

I grin. “I’m trying to earn another gold star, but you’re a notoriously stingy grader.”

She snorts. “There it is.”

I smile, too, but my jaw tightens because this isn’t just banter. Not for me.

“I mean it, Zo.”

She swallows, eyes on her cup instead of me. Something in me pulls tight at that, because I’m laying it out as clearly as I know how, and she’s still dodging the edges of it.

So I move, slowly making my way around the counter and closing the space between us. Then I reach out and brush my thumb across her cheek, catching the last trace of a tear before she can hide it.

Her eyes flutter closed for half a second, and fuck, that’s all it takes.

I step in and wrap my arms around her on instinct. Just fold her into my chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t pull away, just exhales a soft and shaky breath, her forehead brushing my collarbone. It’s not long, not dramatic. Just enough for my heart to make a promise I can’t take back.Long enough for her to let herself be held, and for me to memorize how it feels to give her something she doesn’t know how to ask for yet.

When she pulls back, it’s careful. Measured. Her fingers sweep under her eyes as she stares at me, lips parted like she’s about to say something.

This is it. She’s going to say what I’ve been waiting to hear. That she feels it too, that she’s falling.

But instead—

“There was another message.”

I stop moving.

“Last night,” she adds.

“Where?”

“My work email.” She shifts, seeming smaller somehow. “A screenshot from my socials. Just… of my nails.”

My jaw tightens as my gaze drops to her hand—this week it’s short almond nails, glossy black with tiny silver lettering across two fingers that spell outbad idea.

“What did it say?”

She hesitates. “I always liked that red on you. Looks good against your skin tone.”

Her voice is steady, but my skin crawls.

“I swear to God—”

---