Page 85 of Make the Play

There’s a creak, and the whole thing tips. Not slowly, not with warning. Just a full collapse—legs out, screws clattering across the hardwood, the entire thing toppling sideways akin to a drunk giraffe. It knocks into my leg on the way down, and I yelp, falling backward, catching myself with my palms as Zoe gasps.

“Oh my god—are you—”

She breaks off because I’m lying on my back, arms splayed, hair mussed, and a single wooden dowel comically resting on my chin.

She covers her mouth first, trying to hold it in, but then it just breaks out of her. Sharp and sudden, then full and stupidly beautiful. It’s not a laugh, it’s a bark, and then a wheeze, and then this full-body cackle that makes her double over and gasp for air.

“Oh my god,” she manages. “You look like a cartoon. I thought the dowel was going to take you out.”

“I’m glad my trauma is your comedy,” I mutter from the floor, swiping the dowel off my face.

“No, seriously, your face when it hit your leg—”

“I thought I was beingsniped, Zoe.”

That only makes her laugh harder.

And I swear, I’d take ten more shuddering flat-pack disasters to the leg if it meant hearing that sound again.

She finally collapses next to me on the rug with a sigh, cheeks pink from laughing, and her smile soft around the edges. “It’s been a while since I laughed like that.”

I roll my head to the side, taking her in. “It was good to hear.”

She nods, almost shy. “Yeah. It felt good.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it feels full, with something real stretching between us.

There’s a streak of sawdust across her cheek, a little speck stuck near her temple. I reach out without thinking, brushing it away with the pad of my thumb.

She stills under the touch, and my hand lingers a second too long.

All I can hear is the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of the city outside the window. She looks at me then, her eyes wide and unguarded, her smile so faint it doesn’t know whether to stay or go.

“You had sawdust,” I murmur.

“Mhm,” she hums, barely above a whisper.

We’re still on the floor, still surrounded by screws and chaos and a dresser that lost the will to live. But for some reason, this moment feels steady.

I drop my hand and clear my throat, suddenly too aware that I don’t want to move at all. Propping my elbow on the floor, I slowly sit back up. “So, uhh, this room is a disaster zone and there’s still a major lack of mattress… You take my bed tonight. I’ll take the couch.”

Zoe levels me with a look as she also sits back up. “Your bed.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ll take the couch.”

“It’s not that dramatic.”

“You’re six-foot-three, and you want me to believe you’re going to survive on a West Elm loveseat for a night?”

I shrug. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

She watches me for a second longer than necessary, no doubt deciding whether or not to fight me on it. Then, without another word, she stands, grabs her duffel bag, and walks out of the guest room and toward my bedroom door.

“Fine. But I’m judging the hell out of your pillow choices.”

I get up and follow, trailing behind like an idiot Golden Retriever who’s never had company before.

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