Page 137 of Make the Play

“I was there because I care,” he says, so steady and certain. “And I’d do it again.”

My stomach knots. He’s not taking the bait, not letting me shift the narrative and turn this into a slinging match.

He steps forward deliberately, and my eyes dart down to where his fingers twitch.

I step back. Only an inch, but he notices. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning mine, trying to decide whether to reach for me or let me go.

“Tell yourself whatever you need to, Zoe.” A pause, a breath. “But I see you.”

It lands too deep, so I force a laugh that’s brittle at the edges, too sharp to pass for casual. I cross my arms and try to hold this feeling in, to stop from unraveling under the weight of everything he’s not saying.

“So what,” I mutter, “you gonna follow me round like a lost puppy?”

There’s a flicker in his expression, and for a second, I think I’ve hit too hard. That maybe he’ll finally take the out I’m offering, throw me a joke or a ridiculous comment.

But all he does is smirk.

That same maddening smirk I’ve seen a thousand times, except now, it feels different. Less like armor and more like acknowledgment. Like he knows exactly what I’m doing.

And I hate that he sees it.

I turn on my heel and walk toward my bedroom, my pulse pounding in my ears with every step. Because if I stay—if I look back—he’ll see all of it. Everything I haven’t said out loud yet.

I nearly make it to my door before I hear him softly exhale.

“I’m not going anywhere, Zo. You know that.”

I don’t turn around, but I feel it. Every word, every memory. Every goddamn flower.

And I know I’ve been falling for a while now.

But this?

This is the moment I know I love him for it.

***

It’s been hours, and I still haven’t slept. I haven’t even tried.

I’ve been lying here, wrapped in the kind of silence that makes everything louder. I can’t stop replaying it: the way Chase looked at me tonight. He saw the mess behind my mask, and it didn’t scare him. He saw every edge of me and didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back.

Didn’t run.

I heard him for a while after I left the living room, quiet sounds from the kitchen, the hum of water running, the dull thud of a cabinet closing. And then nothing. Just the hush of the condo.

I thought the quiet would help. That once I was alone and the door was shut, I could breathe again. But all it’s done is highlighted the truth.

Chase was at Gran’s funeral. He remembered the flowers. He’s been showing up in every way that counts, and I’ve been pretending I don’t feel it.

Pretending he’s not the safest place I’ve ever stood.

I stare at the ceiling, then turn onto my side. Then onto my back again. The sheets are too warm, and my skin feels tight.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw the covers off and slip out of bed, padding out my door and across the condo in bare feet.

It’s late, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but my legs move anyway, carrying me straight to his door. The light under the crack is out, and I hover. Inhale. I should go back to bed.

But I don’t.

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