Page 25

Chapter eighteen

You’re inviting me into my own bed

Chase

I ’ve been staring at the guest room for ten minutes.

Except calling it a guest room might be generous. Right now, it’s a mattress-less bed frame, two unopened flatpack boxes, and a lamp with gold carnations wrapped around the stand that doesn’t match anything else in the condo.

The sheets are folded neatly on an armchair. The throw pillows are aggressively fluffed on top. The nightstand, which includes a mini refrigerator, is already stocked with Zoe’s favorite sparkling water and a lavender pillow spray I panic-bought because the internet said it helps with anxiety.

But the mattress? Delayed.

Out for delivery tomorrow, and not even the expedited kind of tomorrow. The anytime-between-eight-a.m.-and-forever kind.

I scrub a hand down my face and back out of the room, pacing a tight line in the hallway as my mind replays the same loop over and over.

She’s coming here. Zoe. In my home.

And not just for a quick visit or a post-game hangout. She’s living here, in this space that’s always been mine and only mine.

I should be cleaning. Or cooking. Or hiding the fact that I reorganized the pantry in case she wanted to use it.

This condo has never hosted a guest. Not a friend, not a hookup.

Not even my parents or brother. When they’re in Denver, they stay in a hotel, and that’s by design.

I never set the room up on purpose, because there’s something too real about having family in this space—the people who remember what I did and who want to love me anyway.

Who smile and tell me I’m not to blame, but still flinch when they look at the lake.

But I can’t deny Zoe. Can’t deny the desperation I feel to ensure she’s safe, that she’s protected, even when she hasn’t asked me to do it.

And now, she’s coming here for that exact reason, and I’ve got no fucking mattress.

I wander through the condo like I’m prepping for an inspection, even though this place is already spotless.

There’s nothing out of place, nothing personal, nothing warm.

It’s all clean lines and expensive furniture and one lonely-ass hockey stick leaning in the corner by the balcony. Not even my favorite one.

I mutter a curse under my breath just as the buzzer sounds. My heart jumps, and I’m halfway to the door before it finishes.

When I pull it open, Zoe stands on the other side in leggings, a big zip-up Storm hoodie, and her hair twisted up like she did it in the car.

Charlie took her back to her apartment after work to grab some things, so she’s got a duffel bag in one hand and one of those giant thermal water cups that look like they’d survive the apocalypse in the other.

She looks tired and beautiful and my whole damn world is tilting into her orbit.

“Hi,” she says, frowning at me. “You gonna let me in or just vibe in the doorway all night?”

“Uhhh.” I step aside. “Come in.”

She eyes me warily as she enters, gaze scanning the condo suspiciously. I watch her wander through the space—modern, open plan, neutral tones with a view of the city so good it’s almost lonely.

“You’ve got the main character villain aesthetic down pat,” she mutters, toeing off her sneakers.

“Thanks, I guess?”

She sets her drink down and turns to face me, squinting as if she already knows I’m about to tell her something she won’t like.

“Alright, Walton. Where’s my room?”

I pause. “So, uhh, about that…”

Her eyes narrow, and she turns toward the hallway. The second she walks through the guest room door, she sighs. “No…”

“I swear to God, I ordered the mattress. It’s just not here yet.”

“There’s literally no bed.”

“There’s a frame,” I argue. “That’s like, eighty percent of the structure.”

“There are eight decorative throw pillows.”

“Those were a last-minute panic buy, don’t judge me.”

Her gaze slowly sweeps over the chaos, and then she groans loudly.

“What?”

She points. “There’s a nightstand mini fridge.”

“For your sparkling water.”

“And lavender pillow spray?”

“For your anxiety.”

Her head swivels slowly in my direction. “Did you google how to host a girl during a security crisis ?”

“No,” I lie immediately. “I just guessed.”

Zoe gives me the kind of unimpressed look that has felled stronger men, but she doesn’t press. Instead, her attention shifts, and she walks toward the corner, stopping in front of the lamp.

Her fingers reach out to brush over the wrought iron vine curling up the stand—delicate carnations, painted gold, and glittering straight out of a vintage boutique nightmare.

“This new, too?”

I clear my throat. “Nah. Had it for years.”

She tilts her head and raises a single brow.

“Fine,” I grumble. “It was expensive, and it doesn’t match anything, but—” I gesture vaguely.

“It had carnations,” she finishes softly, fingers still tracing one of the tiny blooms.

I scratch the back of my neck. “Didn’t even think about it. Just saw it and clicked.”

She hums, quiet but warm. “It’s hideous.”

“Objectively.”

“But kinda sweet.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s definitely a thing,” she says, lips twitching as she turns toward the flatpack boxes stacked in the corner. “What’s in those?”

“More furniture,” I admit. “Thought I could build a dresser. Or a chair. I don’t remember, I just panic-clicked half the website.”

She throws a look over her shoulder. “God, you’re so normal about this.”

I shrug, pretending like the tips of my ears aren’t burning. Zoe drops her bag and plants her hands on her hips, swiveling towards me. “Well, come on then.”

I stare at her. “Come on, what?”

“We’re building something. I’m not sleeping next to a crime scene of cardboard and regret.”

“Zoe—”

“Walton, pick up the Allen key or I’m doing it myself.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting cross-legged on the guest room floor, surrounded by screws, cardboard, and two half-unwrapped panels that do not want to coexist peacefully.

“Are you sure that’s the top?” Zoe asks, squinting at the wonky half-built frame between us.

“I don’t know. It has a hole.”

Her brows lift. “They all have holes, Walton.”

I glance down at the instructions, feeling personally betrayed by them. “Look, not everyone can be a flatpack genius, okay?”

“Are you always this confused about what goes on top?”

I look up sharply. “ Wow. ”

Zoe grins. “I’m just saying, maybe you should let someone with a little more experience take the lead.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” I huff, voice dropping an octave. “If this conversation keeps going, the only thing I’ll be leading is you—into bed.”

She scoffs. “You wish.”

I gesture to the dismantled pile of failure between us. “Pretty sure this wannabe dresser just watched you flirt with me.”

“Pretty sure this wannabe dresser is judging your tool-handling skills.”

I level her with a look. “I handle my tool just fine, and you know it.”

Zoe chokes on a laugh, shaking her head. “God, you men are all the same.”

“I’m defending my honor.”

“You don’t have any honor. You skipped three steps.”

“I was improvising.”

“Walton, you skipped the bit where we were supposed to install the actual support beam thingy.”

“Minor detail.”

She picks up the sad, wobbly panel and wiggles it. “This thing has the structural integrity of wet spaghetti.”

“Which is why we’re reinforcing it now.”

“Reinforcing it with what , hope?”

She mutters something under her breath, grabs the supposed top panel, and stands up to adjust it herself.

“Here, if we just tilt this—” she starts, then yanks the piece into place.

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 being sniped , 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.”