Page 87 of Make the Play

I push up slowly, still trying to catch up. “Zoe—”

“Don’t make it weird,” she snaps before I can get any further. “We’re both adults. I’m exhausted. You’re huge. That couch is a war crime.”

I’m still not entirely convinced I’m not dreaming. “You’re inviting me into my own bed.”

“I’m inviting you to use the mattress your tall ass paid for.”

“You sure?”

“No, I’m filled with deep existential dread. But I’ll get over it if I can have my favorite side and you don’t try to spoon me.”

“No promises.”

She gives me a stern look, then spins on her heel to walk back toward the bedroom. I follow, grabbing the throw blanket just in case.

The space feels different now. Less mine, more shared. My hoodie’s been moved to an armchair, but her bag’s beside it. Her toiletries are in my ensuite. Her scent’s in the air—coconut and something floral, mixed with laundry detergent and nerves.

Zoe climbs in first, burrowing into the pillows like she’s already over it. I slide in beside her, careful to keep space between us. The sheets are cool, the air warmer now with both of us in the room. I don’t move and try not to breathe too loudly. I just stare up at the ceiling again, only this time I’m surrounded by the faint scent of her shampoo and the weight of her presence four inches to my right.

She doesn’t say anything, but I hear the way her breathing isn’t quite even. The way her fingers twitch once against the sheets, like she’s trying to talk herself down from something.

And I get it. Because I’m doing the same damn thing.

We lie there in the dark, not touching, not speaking, the silence thick and humming with everything we’re not saying.

But somehow, this—her, here in my space, in my bed—feels like the start of something I won’t be able to take back.

And I already know I don’t want to.

She shifts once beside me, pulling the blanket higher. I hear her exhale, a slow breath she’s been holding since she slipped into my bed.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, so low I almost miss it. “For letting me stay. For… wanting to keep me safe.”

I stay stock still, absorbing her words, because I know how rare it is for her to let anyone see her with her walls down.

“You didn’t have to,” she adds, even quieter. “But I’m glad you did.”

My throat tightens as my head turns ever so slightly to take in her profile.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather you be.”

Another pause, then a deflection. “If you snore, I’m kicking you out.”

I huff a quiet, forced laugh. “Guess I better stay quiet then.”

A few more minutes pass. She rustles the blanket like she’s settling in, and I let myself do the same.

Under the blanket, I slide my hand a fraction across the sheet. Just enough to almost reach her. Just enough to let myself pretend, for one second, that I could.

Then I stop and let it rest there, between us. Close. Not touching, not even close enough to brush her skin.

But close enough to feel the warmth. Close enough to imagine it.

I don’t move it again, just breathe and let her scent wrap around me. For the first time in years, sleep doesn’t feel like a punishment.

It feels like something I might look forward to.

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