Page 36

Chapter twenty-four

God forbid you sit still and have a feeling

Chase

F resh from my early morning run, I notice Zoe curled up on the world’s tiniest couch, scrolling her phone. She’s sipping from the mug I got her weeks ago that says My girlfriend is hotter than this coffee on the side. She claims it’s tacky, says it gives her the ick.

But it’s the only one I’ve seen her drink from.

I don’t know why that does things to my chest, but it does. It’s an admission without the weight. A silent declaration she hasn’t claimed yet.

She doesn’t look up when I toe off my sneakers and walk over with a paper-wrapped bouquet and two takeaway cups balanced in one hand, setting them down on the coffee table in front of her. I purposefully chose my running route so I could pick them up on the way back.

It’s been a few days since she stood three feet from me in the kitchen, looking like she was finally going to say something real. Acknowledge what’s going on here. But she did what she always does. Pivoted. Smiled. Slipped the mask back on.

So I haven’t pushed, I just keep showing up.

“You went for another run before training?” she asks, eyes still on her phone. “Are you okay? Are you training for war ?”

I shrug, sinking down into an armchair next to her. “Better than sitting still and thinking too hard.”

About crawling into your bed.

She lifts a brow but doesn’t look up. “God forbid you sit still and have a feeling.”

“Exactly…” I nod toward her. “Good to see you’re sitting in yours, though.”

It’s a subtle dig, but she ignores it. “And here I thought you were just trying to burn off carbs.”

I reach forward and pop the lid on the smoothie I ordered while I picked up her coffee. “Nah. Just trying to outrun all the poor choices I want to make.”

She finally lifts her head at that, then blinks down at the bouquet. Pale yellow this time. Soft and springy, maybe a little too optimistic. Like me.

Her eyes flick toward me, then back to her screen. “Those for your actual girlfriend or your PR girlfriend?”

I grin. “They’re the same person, sweetheart.”

Taking a sip of my smoothie, I try not to look at her bare legs folded under her. She finally sets her phone down and wraps her arms, swamped in my hoodie, around her knees.

“You’re bribing me with emotional symbolism now?”

“Just thought they summed us up well,” I say, nodding to the bouquet again. “Yellow for joy and friendship, right?”

She bites her lip, slowly shaking her head as a chuckle bubbles out. My favorite sound.

“Actually, yellow carnations tend to mean rejection and disappointment.”

My face falls.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Scout’s honor,” she says, swiping a finger across her chest. “This is a coded floral threat.”

“Goddammit,” I mutter. “That florist did give me a look, actually. I thought it was judgment… turns out it was concern. ”

Zoe tilts her head back and lets out a full-blown laugh this time. It shoots straight through me, warm and sharp and so fucking addictive, yanking me right back to the tent. To the way she curled into me and laughed when she realized how far gone I was for her body, her mouth, her fire. All of her.

I must be looking at her like a damn fool, because she blinks once. Twice. Then grabs the coffee I set down in front of her and hides a smile behind the lid.

“How was your run?”

I stretch back in the chair. “Long. Legs are toast. Camp’s ramping up. Coach Benson is pushing hard before pre-season kicks off.”

“Isn’t your first away game, like, Wednesday?”

“Tuesday night,” I correct. “Fly out Monday. Two road games, then we’re back for the opener.”

She nods and takes another sip but doesn’t look at me.

We’ve been like this every morning—easy and light on the surface with something heavier underneath. Me pretending I’m not counting down the seconds until she admits what I already know.

In the meantime, I bring her flowers. I DoorDash her coffee and croissants to work. And she pretends not to notice the message behind them.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, leaning forward to grab her phone.

“Appreciating.”

“It’s too early for appreciating.”

“It’s never too early to appreciate your girlfriend.”

Her gaze lifts again, sharp and wary, trying to gauge if I’m joking or if I mean it. Which is hilarious, considering I’ve already worshipped her like a fucking altar. Twice.

“Don’t start,” she says.

I raise both hands. “Just being supportive.”

She narrows her eyes. “This is support? Feels like strategic seduction with caffeine.”

“Okay, but is it effective strategic seduction?”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses her curving lips to the rim of the lid again.

I bite back my own smile and stand up. It takes everything I’ve got not to lean over, cup the back of her neck, and kiss her, just to see if she’d stop me.

But I don’t. Instead, I clear my throat and gesture down the hallway.

“Gonna grab a shower before I head out to training.”

Come join me.

She nods. “Make sure to wash behind your ears, Walton.”

Rolling my eyes, I head for the ensuite, turning the heat up until the spray singes my skin. Hoping it’ll burn away the image of her bare legs making a home on my couch, or the way her nose dips into the neckline of my hoodie, shoulders rising as she inhales the scent. Inhales me.

I brace both hands on the tiles, letting the steam fill the space while water beats down my back. The silence creeps in, and I let it. I close my eyes and steady my breathing, running through the counting technique she showed me weeks ago. The one I didn’t think would work.

The first time she showed me, lying so soft against me, I almost laughed. Now it’s a routine. A quiet ritual. The only thing that stops me from unraveling when the dreams still come.

And it’s working. Not perfectly, not always, but enough to take the edge off. And yeah, it helps knowing she’s just a door down the hall.

Even if I’d rather have her in my bed.

I jerk off twice before I feel ready to re-join any kind of reality that involves Zoe, then throw my gear together for training.

When I step into the kitchen to grab my protein shake, I freeze.

Zoe’s on one of the barstools now, coffee cup still in hand, face tipped toward her phone. There are tears in her eyes. Real ones.

She sees me and quickly wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Jesus,” she mutters, trying to laugh. Her voice wobbles. “I hate the algorithm. It knows I’m weak.”

I pause by the counter, voice careful. “Bad take? Celebrity death?”

She lifts her phone and gives me a watery half-smile. “Worse. Daddy-daughter dance at a wedding. He picks her up halfway through the song, and the caption said, ‘ For the girl who used to stand on my feet while we danced .’”

Her voice catches on the last word, and she clears her throat like it’ll help.

I don’t move, just watch her. Because in all the years I’ve known Zoe Carlson, I’ve only ever seen her cry once.

And she doesn’t know I was there.

“You okay?” I ask gently.

She waves a hand in the air. “Fine. Emotionally compromised by a father-daughter trend. I’ll live.”

I nod slowly. “Didn’t think TikTok would be the thing to break you.”

“Yeah, well.” Her mouth quirks. “Surprise. I’m sentimental. But don’t tell anyone, I’ve got a brand to maintain.”

“I won’t,” I say. “But if you ever want to talk about him, or your Gran… I’ll listen.”

She goes still at my words, so I keep going.

“I know I’m not the guy for emotional breakthroughs, but…

” I rub the back of my neck. “You helped me. That night, with the breathing and counting stuff. I’ve been trying it since, and…

it works. So if you ever need to vent, or yell, or throw something at someone, or just…

breathe . I’m here. To return the favor. ”

Her expression shifts, softening in that rare and beautiful way I almost never see, but she still deflects. “You’re really going hard on this supportive boyfriend thing, huh?”

I grin. “I’m trying to earn another gold star, but you’re a notoriously stingy grader.”

She snorts. “There it is.”

I smile, too, but my jaw tightens because this isn’t just banter. Not for me.

“I mean it, Zo.”

She swallows, eyes on her cup instead of me. Something in me pulls tight at that, because I’m laying it out as clearly as I know how, and she’s still dodging the edges of it.

So I move, slowly making my way around the counter and closing the space between us. Then I reach out and brush my thumb across her cheek, catching the last trace of a tear before she can hide it.

Her eyes flutter closed for half a second, and fuck, that’s all it takes.

I step in and wrap my arms around her on instinct. Just fold her into my chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t pull away, just exhales a soft and shaky breath, her forehead brushing my collarbone.

It’s not long, not dramatic. Just enough for my heart to make a promise I can’t take back.

Long enough for her to let herself be held, and for me to memorize how it feels to give her something she doesn’t know how to ask for yet.

When she pulls back, it’s careful. Measured. Her fingers sweep under her eyes as she stares at me, lips parted like she’s about to say something.

This is it. She’s going to say what I’ve been waiting to hear. That she feels it too, that she’s falling.

But instead—

“There was another message.”

I stop moving.

“Last night,” she adds.

“Where?”

“My work email.” She shifts, seeming smaller somehow. “A screenshot from my socials. Just… of my nails.”

My jaw tightens as my gaze drops to her hand—this week it’s short almond nails, glossy black with tiny silver lettering across two fingers that spell out bad idea .

“What did it say?”

She hesitates. “ I always liked that red on you. Looks good against your skin tone. ”

Her voice is steady, but my skin crawls.

“I swear to God—”

“I reported it,” she interrupts. “It’s logged. Probably nothing.”

“Or it’s not.”

“I’m fine.”