Page 181 of Make the Play

“Because this isn’t aboutfeelings, Chase. It’s about safety and reputation, and damage control. About me being one more fucking notch in your PR history of chaos.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Do I?”

He moves toward me, slower now, controlled but furious. “You werenevera notch, and you know it. You’ve been living here inmyspace, sleeping in my bed. Waking up next to me and coming onmyfucking tongue.”

My throat burns, but he doesn’t stop.

“I’m ready to give you fucking everything, but one minute you’re talking to me like I’m something special, and the next you act like this meansnothing.” His voice breaks slightly, enough to catch me in the ribs. “So don’t stand here and tell me this isn’t about feelings, just because you’re too scared to acknowledge yours.”

For a second, all I can hear is the pounding of my pulse in my ear, and then I snap.

“You think I don’t know what we’ve been doing here?” I ask, tilting my head.

“I know you do. You just won’t pull back your mask and admit it.”

“Okay,” I whisper, rage laced in every word. “You wanna see what’s behind this mask, Walton? Fine. Fuckingregret.Loads of it.”

I take a step toward him, hands clenched.

“If I had just stayed away, resisted your fucking face and not let the idea of you sink into my bones—that this could work, that this could be real—then I would be so much better off.”

I pause, watching his expression twist, watching the punch land right where I aimed it. His mouth pulls tight, and his chest lifts like he’s about to speak, but I cut him off.

“Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same.”

His laugh is humorless. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

He closes the space between us in three steps, not touching me, but close enough that I feel the heat of him against my skin. His jaw is clenched so tight I half expect him to break a tooth.

“I’ve done everything I can to prove to you that this—we—aren’t anything but fucking endgame, Zoe. And you stand there, wrapped inmyhoodie, inmyhome, and tell me I should regret this?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to me. His voice is low now, gutted.

“You don’t get to throw that at me. You don’t get to call this regret just because you’re scared. I’ve spent months going slow for you, playing along like I don’t wanna fall to my fucking knees for you at any given moment.”

He hesitates just for a second, like he’s debating whether or not to say the thing Iknowis on the tip of his tongue.

I see it, I feel it, and I know it’s coming.

The thing neither of us has said yet, but has been humming beneath every kiss, every laugh, every quiet morning where I steal glances at him, trying to memorize the way the sunlight touches his face.

But he stops himself and reaches for me instead.

I turn on my heel and walk down the hall and into the bedroom, the silence behind me thick and choking. I grab my stuff quietly, moving on autopilot. I don’t slam drawers, don’t cry. I just pull everything into my suitcase, scrape my hair back into a bun with shaking fingers, and start stuffing my keys into the side pocket of my bag.

When I emerge and go for the front door, he’s already there, blocking it.

“Zoe.”

I finally meet his eyes, and what I see there—hurt, betrayal, love he won’t say out loud—nearly knocks me over. For a second, we just stare at each other, breathing hard and not moving. Thinking, maybe if we stand still long enough, none of this will collapse.

Then, without a word, he steps forward and grabs the back of my neck, crashing his mouth to mine.

His fingers cup my jaw, and my hands plant flat against his chest, undecided on whether I might shove him or climb him. We kiss like we’re trying to survive it; a goodbye and ascream and an apology we don’t know how to speak. Just two people who want the world to stop long enough to kiss without consequence.

He pulls away first, breathing hard.

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