Page 35

Chapter twenty-three

Do you have a fantasy involving a snake?

Zoe

M y keychain jingles somewhere in the depths of my bag as I dig for the card that opens Chase’s condo door. It’s wedged under what feels like a crumpled receipt, two lip glosses, and possibly, judging by the sharp stab I just got, a rogue earring.

My phone buzzes again.

I sigh and glance at the screen, already knowing who it’ll be.

The group chat has been unhinged ever since that kiss at Enigma went viral.

Hundreds of little snippets of us kissing were taken, and within hours we were all over social media, tags flooding the Storm’s page.

It didn’t matter it was technically real for us because, as far as the Storm and Pulse are concerned, we were faking it and playing perfectly into the narrative.

So I’ve kept up appearances, and Chase has doubled down.

Like, the man has made it his personal mission to be high-key .

He has my coffee delivered almost daily to the office, along with my favorite almond croissant.

And like a good little girlfriend, I post them to my socials, captioning them with things like “Best boyfriend—even in training camp” and a ridiculous assortment of emojis.

Like it’s nothing. All for the show.

That’s between us and God ??????

Lulu: I just need to know what kind of birth chart creates a man who sends daily croissants. It’s a love language and he is GONE for you

Tamara: I’m calling it. Love language = acts of service.

Charlie: I’d marry him for the croissant alone.

Claire: can we talk about how his hand was in your hair in those Enigma pics again? I’ve never seen a man look more obsessed.

Me: it’s not that deep.

Me: Calm your star charts

Lulu: sorry, but no. He’s a Sagittarius sun with a Virgo moon, Zoe. He’s repressing so much affection he’s gonna explode. Preferably onto you.

Tamara: girl, that man is courting you like it’s the 1800s

Claire: just tell us when we’re getting bridesmaid dresses because I want satin.

I stare at the screen for a second, then shove my phone back in my bag with more force than necessary.

I can’t deal with this right now. Can’t deal with star charts or almond croissants.

Or the vision I just had of a beach and me in a light, silky dress, Chase standing at the end of a sandy make-shift aisle with linen shorts and hockey calves on show.

Instead, I push the condo door open, intent on changing into comfy clothes and zoning out with truly questionable TV—until I spot them.

Carnations, sitting on the dining table, are visible through the door at the end of the hallway.

Peach this time. A little brighter than the last bunch and a little messier, like he shoved them into the vase in a rush before heading out the door. One of the stems is lopsided, leaning just a little to the left like it’s drunk. It’s stupidly endearing.

The sun catches the tips of the petals through the window, making them glow a little.

That’s when it hits me—this isn’t new anymore. This is the second time he’s done this since the festival.

That makes it a habit.

Which means Chase Walton is the kind of guy who buys me flowers, unprompted, without making a big thing of it.

Who pays enough attention to pick a different color every time just so he can ask me what they mean.

Who, apparently, stops at a florist between training drills and post-skate protein shakes to make sure there’s something waiting for me when I get home.

It’s gentle. Thoughtful. Fucking dangerous.

Because we haven’t talked about the festival, or the tent-gasm situation. Or the fact that, since we got back ten days ago, we’ve somehow slipped into the rhythm of a couple who’ve lived together for years , instead of just over a month.

He walked straight back into the start of training camp like nothing happened. And sure, he’s focused—he always is when it comes to hockey—but he’s also been steady. Present.

We haven’t talked about what it means or what happens next, but he’s acting like everything’s fine and we’re just friends who are still faking it. As if he can just keep doing these quiet, sweet little things, and I won’t ask questions.

Like it’s normal .

And I’m starting to run out of excuses for why it’s not, or why I shouldn’t jump him the next time I see him.

I leave my keys on the hook and kick off my heels, passing the bathroom and hearing the shower running. He’s home. Good.

The second I think it, I want to slap myself. What do I even mean— good ? Am I hoping we’ll finally talk? Hoping he’ll look at me the way he did in that tent and forget that he’s trying to be noble or focused or whatever the fuck it is he’s doing right now?

Hoping he’ll pin me to the wall and end this unbearable uncertainty the old-fashioned way?

Obviously.

But I’m not expecting that from him. It’s quietly infuriating how hands-off he’s being.

I enter my room to quickly get changed, then head into the kitchen for water. The shower cuts off, and I hear the sound of water slapping tile. The soft thud as he moves around the bathroom.

A minute later, he walks into the hallway in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, chest flushed from the heat, rivulets of water trailing down his abs in ways that should be illegal. He scrubs another towel over his face, then pauses when he spots me in the kitchen.

His eyes skim me once, tracing over his hoodie I claimed weeks ago, bare legs, socks with tiny daisies on them. His mouth quirks like he’s trying not to smile too wide.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from the steam.

“Hey.” I try to sound neutral, but damn it, I sound breathless.

He disappears into his room for a beat, then returns with gray sweats on, his damp hair curling at the ends, and heads to the pantry like we do this every day. Which we kind of do.

We’ve somehow slipped into a rhythm—me in his hoodie, drinking his bottled water, him half-naked and eating protein bars—and neither of us acknowledging the absurdity of it.

That we’ve slept together once. Hooked up twice. That I’ve woken up tangled in his arms on three separate occasions. That I somehow, unconsciously, until this very moment, have a running count of those particular things, and we live together but sleep in separate rooms.

He rips the wrapper of his bar open with his teeth and leans a hip against the counter. “Long day?”

“Mm.” I nod, twisting the cap off my water bottle. “Client from hell. Took me twenty minutes to convince a guy not to pose shirtless with a python for his brand campaign.”

His brow lifts. “I mean… what if he’s onto something?”

“If you ever suggest it for a Storm shoot, I’m quitting.”

“Okay, but what if it’s a cool python? Like, chill and emotionally well-adjusted?”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you… have a fantasy involving a snake?”

He grins, eyes warm. “That is a loaded question, but my only real fantasy involves you not looking at me like I just asked you to attend a reptile convention.”

I try not to smile, I really do. “You’re annoying, you know that, right?”

“And yet you continue to live here.”

“You basically forced me to move in.”

“For your safety,” he says, mock-stern.

“Right. Because when I think ‘safe,’ I think your condo.”

Everywhere feels safe when I’m with you.

“Excuse you,” he says, grabbing a water from the fridge. “This condo has snacks, security, and”—his gaze flicks over me again—“clearly a great wardrobe selection.”

I flip him off. He grins wider.

“For your safety,” he echoes again, a little softer now. “Anything new I should know about?”

Shaking my head, I take a sip of water. “I haven’t had any new messages since the day after I was followed.”

His jaw works for a second, the mention of it clearly scratching something raw, but he reins it in and nods slowly.

I clear my throat. “How was your day?”

He shrugs. “Camp’s camp. My legs are dead. Got screamed at for twenty minutes about breakout timing.”

“Wow, fun.”

“You know what really gets the blood flowing?” he deadpans. “Drills, followed by high-def footage of your mistakes, slowed down and narrated like a crime documentary.”

I snort, and he grins again, something quieter behind it now. A version of himself he saves just for me, not dissimilar from this life we accidentally built while we were busy pretending it wasn’t real.

“You eating here tonight?”

I nod slowly. “Unless you want space.”

Chase’s head jerks back, perplexed. “Why would I want space?”

I don’t have a good answer, not one I’m brave enough to say out loud. I shift my weight and look at the flowers again.

“I don’t know. You’ve been…”

Soft around the edges. Steady. Suspiciously patient, waiting for me to catch up.

“You’ve been training. I know it’s a lot.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just finishes chewing and tosses the wrapper in the trash. Then he walks over to the sink to rinse his hands, moving with that calm, deliberate steadiness he’s been wearing since the festival.

When he turns back, he’s frowning.

“If I didn’t want you here, Zo, you wouldn’t be here.”

That shouldn’t hit like it does. I nod once and look at the flowers again.

“I keep waiting for you to bring it up,” I say quietly. “The tent.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stiffen or shift or give me even a flicker of discomfort. Just watches me with that same unreadable softness that’s been wrecking me lately.

Which is fucking unnerving, because somehow, due to one kiss-turned-squirting incident in a goddamn tent, the tables have turned. I’m the one flustered now, dying in real time every minute he’s near. And Chase Walton is cool as a fucking cucumber.

The worst part isn’t that he hasn’t brought the tent up, it’s that I can’t stop thinking about it. Not because of the orgasms—though, Jesus —but because of this grounded version of him that keeps proving me wrong that we’d never make sense together.

“I didn’t wanna push you.” He shrugs, mouth tilted but serious. “I figured if you wanna talk about it, you would.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No,” he says simply. “Because I already know what it meant to me.”

Something cracks under my ribs, and my throat locks. I have no idea how to respond to that, and he doesn’t fill the silence, either. Doesn’t try to soften it, just lets the weight of what he said sit between us.

“So, you’re just gonna… wait?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Zo.” His voice is soft. Certain. A promise he doesn’t even flinch delivering. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, I’ll wait.”

My mouth opens to respond, with what I don’t know.

Thank you? Sorry? Don’t be fucking absurd?

I know what old Zoe would do. She’d deflect.

Joke and mask over the emotion. But right now, that feels brittle.

It feels dishonorable when I’m clinging to a feeling I have absolutely no idea what to do with.

But before I can short-circuit entirely, he steps closer, the scent of citrus soap and clean cotton making my stomach twist. Blue eyes lock on mine for a beat, then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head.

“Order whatever you want for dinner,” he murmurs, stepping back again. “Just don’t Venmo me back this time.”

Then he disappears down the hallway, out of reach again, leaving the smell of his shampoo and the ghost of his mouth behind.

I stand there for a long time, holding a bottle of water I’ve barely drunk from, staring at the flowers I suddenly want to throw out the window.

Because this man is killing me with kindness. And patience. And understanding.

I used to think the risk was the fall, but I think I’ve already done that part.

I was so sure I’d know when it happened, that it would feel big and obvious and terrifying.

Instead, it’s been this slow, infuriating unraveling.

One cup of coffee. A hideous antique lamp.

Arms wrapped around me in a crowd. One goddamn carnation at a time.

Now I’m here, in his kitchen, wondering what happens if I let go of the edge and stop pretending I’m not already halfway down.

And, horrifyingly, I think he noticed it before I did.

Worse, he appears to be waiting at the bottom, ready to catch me.