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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.

She pushes open my bedroom door and stops, taking in the space.

Her gaze sweeps over everything—California king-size bed, navy sheets, dim lighting.

A bottle of cologne on the dresser. A Storm hoodie I forgot to hang up, still flung over the foot of the bed.

Hockey gear stacked neatly by the closet.

No mess, but no personality either. Just a room built for function.

The air holds that familiar scent of citrus and sea salt, like me.

She drops her bag beside the dresser and throws me one last glance over her shoulder.

“You’re seriously sleeping on the couch?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, well… it’s late, so see you in the morning, roomie.” She smiles and closes the door in my face, because of course she does.

It’s so perfectly Zoe. One minute she’s laughing with her whole chest, letting me swipe tiny pieces of sawdust off her skin, and the next she’s pretending she doesn’t feel a thing, sliding her mask back into place and slamming my bedroom door in my face.

I wander back into the living room and stare at the couch I’m supposed to sleep on.

The damn thing was left by the stylist who staged the condo when I bought it, and it looks expensive and trendy in that straight-line, mid-century, bad-for-your-back kind of way.

The cushions are too firm. The arms are at a weird angle.

And I know for a fact it’s five-foot-seven long, tops.

I sigh and grab a throw blanket from the ottoman, then lower myself slowly, thinking maybe if I treat it with respect, it won’t destroy my spine.

Fifteen minutes in, I’ve adjusted my legs at least three times, rotated my neck twice, and I’m convinced I’m going to need a chiropractor in the morning.

The blanket keeps sliding off. One of the decorative buttons on the cushion has made contact with my kidney.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through it, cursing myself for being a noble idiot.

The only upside, the only thing keeping me tethered, is the sound of her.

Quiet movements drifting from my bedroom down the hall.

The soft rustle of her rummaging in her bag.

The low, steady hum of running water. At one point, the muted thunk of a drawer opening.

The rhythm of it all is weirdly soothing. Domestic, almost.

Another thirty minutes crawl by, maybe more.

Long enough that the house starts to creak a little under the weight of the quiet.

I stare into the dark, watching shadows creep along the ceiling from the streetlights outside, wondering if she’s okay.

If she’s sleeping. If she’s lying there wide awake, staring at the ceiling, too.

I’m halfway through convincing myself not to go check on her when I hear the bedroom door creak open. And then footsteps, bare feet padding against hardwood.

I glance toward the hallway just as Zoe steps into view.

Her hair’s a little mussed, arms crossed over her chest, one hip cocked. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, my old team logo faded across the front, sleeves nearly to her elbows, and bare legs in black sleep shorts that I clock immediately and then spend the next several seconds pretending I didn’t.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just gives me a long, silent once-over on the couch like I’m the biggest dumbass she’s ever seen.

“You look ridiculous.”

“I feel worse.”

She tilts her head. “You’re actually trying to sleep on that thing?”

“Chivalry, baby.” I gesture weakly. “Can’t have your fake boyfriend getting too comfortable.”

Zoe rolls her eyes and exhales through her nose. “You’ve folded yourself onto that couch like a broken Transformer.”

“You’re underestimating my flexibility.”

“Gross.”

I grin. “You’re the one who brought up folding.”

She doesn’t laugh, just stares at me for another beat.

“Come to bed.”

My heart skips.

“…Sorry?”

She sighs, sharp and tired. “I can’t sleep. Your bed is massive, and you’re on a couch made for toddlers. Stop being a dumbass and just come share it.”

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.

***

It’s the lake again. Always the lake.

The air is too clean, the sky too wide. The lake is frozen solid beneath my skates, perfect and glassy, stretching out in every direction like it’s never going to end.

Then comes the sound.

The first crack is subtle, a faint pop beneath my feet. Then another.

Jordan’s voice, calling my name.

I turn too fast, the ice groaning beneath me. I can see him now, out past the edge, waving me back, yelling something I can’t quite hear. I skate toward him anyway. Always. Every time.

And every time, I fall.

The cold hits first, a thousand fists punching me all over at once. Then the panic. The sinking. The silence.

And then, Jordan grabbing my wrist, his fingers locking tight. Me kicking, screaming, trying to find purchase on a surface that won’t hold me. Him staying in the water too long.

Because of me. Because I was the one who fell.

My lungs burn and my chest aches. I’m underwater again, and I can’t get out.

I can’t get out.

I lurch upright with a gasp, soaked in sweat.

The room is dark and still, but my pulse hammers in my throat. It takes me a second to remember where I am. Takes another to realize I’m not alone.

The sheets shift beside me, and a soft voice cuts through the dark.

“Chase?”

Zoe.

My heart’s still racing like I’ve been sprinting, but her voice pulls me back and anchors me.

Her hand reaches gently for my arm. “You okay?”

I drag in a shaky breath. “Yeah. Just—just a dream. Nothing.”

She hums softly. “Your version of nothing looks a lot like a panic attack.”

Her voice is quiet. No judgment, just concern.

I scrub both hands over my face, trying to wipe the memory away. “Sorry I woke you.”

She shakes her head and shifts closer, one hand finding mine under the covers. Her fingers thread through mine without any hesitation.

“You didn’t.”

She doesn’t ask what it was about. Doesn’t push, just shifts closer again, still holding my hand. Her thumb brushes slowly over the back of mine, her voice low.

“Want me to walk you through one of my weird grounding things?”

I huff out a half-laugh. “You mean some of your witchy woo-woo shit?”

She nods in the dark. “Exactly. You mock, but it works.”

I don’t say anything for a second. Just focus on the way her thumb keeps moving, the way her body is warm and close without crowding me. I could drown in this kind of safety and gentleness.

“Okay,” I mutter.

Her tone softens. “Alright. Start with five things you can feel.”

I shift slightly under the sheet. “Uh… sheets. Sweat. My hair sticking to my neck. You… holding my hand.”

She doesn’t say anything at that, just gives my fingers the smallest squeeze.

“One more?”

“…My heart, still beating.”

Her voice is barely a whisper as she hums. “That’s a good one.”

She keeps going. “Now, four things you can hear.”

I swallow, trying to calm my breathing.

“Your voice. The air vent and the sheets rustling. And…” I pause, listening. “Your breathing.”

There’s a beat of silence before she says, “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Find me in the noise.”

I can’t speak, so I squeeze her hand back, and she doesn’t push further. Just guides me through the rest of it.

“Okay. Three things you can see.”

I let my gaze shift toward her. “Your eyes glinting in the streetlights. The way your hair’s falling across your shoulder. The shadows on the ceiling.”

What I don’t say is that I’m counting the curve of her mouth, the soft line of her collarbone, and how badly I want to memorize every inch of her while she’s close enough to touch.

She keeps going. “Two things you can smell.”

I inhale slowly. “Your shampoo. My detergent.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

I pause again, because the real answer is her mouth on mine, a constant memory from the last time I kissed her.

“Morning breath,” I lie.

She hums a quiet laugh and squeezes my hand again, settling back down into the covers. I settle back, too, realizing my pulse has slowed. The panic’s retreated into something softer, something that feels survivable.

I turn my head slightly toward her in the dark. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Her voice is sleepy now. “But I’m still gonna punish you for calling it woo-woo shit tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

She nestles a little closer, her voice drifting. “For the record, you don’t have to tell me what it was about. I mean, I’d listen. But you don’t owe me anything.”

My jaw tightens, and for a second, I think I won’t say anything. But then I do.

“I fell through the ice when I was ten.”

Zoe doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt.

“My brother pulled me out. But he… he got stuck. It took them longer to get to him. He was in the hospital for weeks. Lost his shot at playing. All because I wasn’t paying attention.”

The silence is still, but not the kind that feels empty, more like the kind that wraps around you.

“You were a kid,” she says eventually. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Tell that to the kid who still has the same nightmare fifteen years later.”

“I will,” she says softly. “And then I’ll stay right here until he believes me.”

My chest caves a little at that. Just enough to let her words in, to let her voice settle in the hollow space I hadn’t realized was there.

Zoe yawns softly into her pillow. “Get some sleep, Chase.”

And somehow, lying here in the dark, with her hand still threaded in mine and my name on her lips, I believe her.