Page 135 of Make the Play

“I hate how scared it made me,” I whisper. “The waiting and the not knowing. Charlie’s strong, Iknowthat. But that fear still crawled under my skin.”

Chase breathes with me, slow and steadily in sync.

“The fear’s always loudest when it’s someone you can’t imagine losing.” He pauses, and I feel it before he says the last part.

“That’s love, Zo.”

I don’t respond, but I don’t let go either. Just let his words wash over me. Eventually, I ease back and swipe at my cheeks with the sleeve of my hoodie.Hishoodie.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m a fucking mess.”

“Nah,” he says gently. “You’re strong as hell.”

I huff a weak laugh. “Gross.”

Chase smiles, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t push.

“I’m gonna…” I gesture toward the stairs and turn, each step slower than the last.

“Zoe.”

I freeze halfway up, my hand tightening on the banister as I glance back over my shoulder. He’s still standing where I left him, hands at his sides, gaze steady.

“She’s not all you have,” he says. “You’ve got me, too. Always have.”

For once, I don’t try to joke, don’t run from it. I just look at him.

“Thanks, Chase.”

His eyes crinkle when I say his name, and I feel it in my chest.

I offer a watery smile, then I turn and keep going. Because I can. Because tonight, he didn’t let me carry it alone.

Chapter twenty-six

White ones mean pure love, right?

Zoe

We make it back to the condo just before eleven, after Alison arrives to relieve us of our babysitting duties.

By the time we get in, I’m somewhere between bone-tired and buzzed with emotion. Chase kicks the door shut behind us, his key card clattering as he drops it onto the hallway console.

“Not to brag,” he says, “but I think that was a pretty elite babysitting performance.”

“You got disarmed by a four-year-old,” I murmur, toeing off my boots. “Let’s not hand out medals just yet.”

“Details.”

He heads to the kitchen while I peel off my coat and rub a hand over my face. My body is exhausted, but my brain won’t shut up.

I pad into the kitchen and find the vase of yellow carnations still on the counter. This morning’s bouquet, the ones he brought back with coffee, and that smirky little grin I pretended not to notice.

“You want tea?” he asks, opening the fridge.

“God, yes.”

I tug the vase toward me and turn to the sink to twist the tap on. Refill. Rinse the stems. Distract myself.

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