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Chapter twenty-six

White ones mean pure love, right?

Zoe

W e make it back to the condo just before eleven, after Alison arrives to relieve us of our babysitting duties.

By the time we get in, I’m somewhere between bone-tired and buzzed with emotion. Chase kicks the door shut behind us, his key card clattering as he drops it onto the hallway console.

“Not to brag,” he says, “but I think that was a pretty elite babysitting performance.”

“You got disarmed by a four-year-old,” I murmur, toeing off my boots. “Let’s not hand out medals just yet.”

“Details.”

He heads to the kitchen while I peel off my coat and rub a hand over my face. My body is exhausted, but my brain won’t shut up.

I pad into the kitchen and find the vase of yellow carnations still on the counter. This morning’s bouquet, the ones he brought back with coffee, and that smirky little grin I pretended not to notice.

“You want tea?” he asks, opening the fridge.

“God, yes.”

I tug the vase toward me and turn to the sink to twist the tap on. Refill. Rinse the stems. Distract myself.

Chase leans a hip against the counter and watches me. “How are my disappointment flowers doing?”

I glance at him. “Alive and thriving. Clearly, they haven’t taken the hint.”

He grins. “You should make a chart for me. Pink is admiration. Yellow's disappointment. What else?”

I grab a dish towel and mop a few stray drips from the counter. “Let’s see… Purple’s capriciousness, which feels on brand for you. Peach is gratitude. Red for lust, obviously.”

“Don’t forget the white ones.”

I frown and glance at him. “Why would you mention the white ones?”

“They’re the same ones that were at your…” His voice fades out, like he’s just caught himself in a haphazard confession.

Something prickles beneath my skin. A slow, creeping awareness.

He stares at the carnations in the vase like they might shield him, jaw flexing once as he swallows. For the first time in his life, Chase Walton is perfectly, unnervingly still. A caught animal playing dead, hoping I’ll look away. Hoping I won’t ask.

“Were at my what, Walton?” My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t.

His eyes flick up, and the apology’s already there. “Zo, I—”

“They’re the same as the ones at my what ?”

His eyes dart between mine, mouth parting like he’s about to lie, but I lift a brow, and he caves.

“At your Gran’s funeral.” His voice dips. “White ones. There were white carnations everywhere.”

The floor tilts, because hearing it is different than suspecting it. Wondering if this is where he was going and knowing that it is—those are two different things entirely. My breath locks in my throat, and I can only stare.

He watches me for a moment, tongue darting out to wet his lip. “White ones mean p-pure love, right? I remember you mentioned it… in her eulogy.”

It’s not fair that he knows that. That he somehow cares enough to remember it. That my eyes are burning, and I should blink, but don’t. I just keep staring, because if I look away, I might fall apart.

“How do you know that?”

He shifts just slightly, enough to close the space between us as if he’s approaching something fragile. Something feral .

“I came.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I just—I wanted to be there. You seemed so sad when we saw you at the rink, so I just wanted to… I don’t know.” He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Be there for you, I guess. Quietly make sure you were okay.”

I can’t speak. My ribs are too tight, too small to hold what’s pushing up against them.

“That was during playoffs.”

He looks at me like it’s nothing. As if him quietly attending the funeral of the most important person in my life isn’t something that might actually destroy me.

“You loved her a lot. Everyone knew it from the way you spoke about her.” His eyes hold mine, trying to tell me something else, something bigger . “And I think she must’ve been truly special, to be loved so deeply by someone like you.”

And that’s the part that breaks me.

I can handle Chase when he’s cocky. When he’s loud, or teasing, or playing dumb. I know what to do with that version of him.

But I don’t know what to do with this. With the boy who sat in the back row of my Gran’s funeral during the fucking playoffs just to make sure I was okay. With the man who keeps bringing me flowers because he knows exactly what they mean, even when I pretend I don’t care.

So I do the only thing I can.

I scoff. “Am I supposed to be touched? You stalking me now, too?”

He flinches. It’s small, barely even there, but I catch it and hate myself for it.

“I was there because I care,” he says, so steady and certain. “And I’d do it again.”

My stomach knots. He’s not taking the bait, not letting me shift the narrative and turn this into a slinging match.

He steps forward deliberately, and my eyes dart down to where his fingers twitch.

I step back. Only an inch, but he notices. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning mine, trying to decide whether to reach for me or let me go.

“Tell yourself whatever you need to, Zoe.” A pause, a breath. “But I see you.”

It lands too deep, so I force a laugh that’s brittle at the edges, too sharp to pass for casual. I cross my arms and try to hold this feeling in, to stop from unraveling under the weight of everything he’s not saying.

“So what,” I mutter, “you gonna follow me round like a lost puppy?”

There’s a flicker in his expression, and for a second, I think I’ve hit too hard. That maybe he’ll finally take the out I’m offering, throw me a joke or a ridiculous comment.

But all he does is smirk.

That same maddening smirk I’ve seen a thousand times, except now, it feels different. Less like armor and more like acknowledgment. Like he knows exactly what I’m doing.

And I hate that he sees it.

I turn on my heel and walk toward my bedroom, my pulse pounding in my ears with every step. Because if I stay—if I look back—he’ll see all of it. Everything I haven’t said out loud yet.

I nearly make it to my door before I hear him softly exhale.

“I’m not going anywhere, Zo. You know that.”

I don’t turn around, but I feel it. Every word, every memory. Every goddamn flower.

And I know I’ve been falling for a while now.

But this?

This is the moment I know I love him for it.

***

It’s been hours, and I still haven’t slept. I haven’t even tried.

I’ve been lying here, wrapped in the kind of silence that makes everything louder. I can’t stop replaying it: the way Chase looked at me tonight. He saw the mess behind my mask, and it didn’t scare him. He saw every edge of me and didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back.

Didn’t run.

I heard him for a while after I left the living room, quiet sounds from the kitchen, the hum of water running, the dull thud of a cabinet closing. And then nothing. Just the hush of the condo.

I thought the quiet would help. That once I was alone and the door was shut, I could breathe again. But all it’s done is highlighted the truth.

Chase was at Gran’s funeral. He remembered the flowers. He’s been showing up in every way that counts, and I’ve been pretending I don’t feel it.

Pretending he’s not the safest place I’ve ever stood.

I stare at the ceiling, then turn onto my side. Then onto my back again. The sheets are too warm, and my skin feels tight.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw the covers off and slip out of bed, padding out my door and across the condo in bare feet.

It’s late, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but my legs move anyway, carrying me straight to his door. The light under the crack is out, and I hover. Inhale. I should go back to bed.

But I don’t.

I stand there for a long, painful moment, my heart pounding like this isn’t the man I’ve known for years, the man who’s kissed me breathless, held me steady, made me feel more seen than anyone ever has.

I raise my hand. Exhale. Pause. Then softly knock once.

A beat of silence follows, then I hear a sleepy groan, the quiet shift of sheets, and the creak of a mattress. The door clicks as it swings open.

Chase blinks in the low light, shirtless and hair rumpled, eyes still hazy with sleep. He frowns as his eyes squint at me.

“You okay?”

I should answer, should say something, but even as I open my mouth the words stay trapped behind my teeth. Instead, I just look at him.

And maybe that’s enough, because I watch the change happen in his expression. A slow, dawning awareness crosses his features, and his hand drops from the doorframe, posture straightening. But he doesn’t reach for me, he just waits.

So I do the only thing I can, the only thing that makes sense. I reach up and trail my fingers gently down his cheek. A quiet, tender caress.

His eyes flutter closed for a breath, then open again.

“Zoe…”

My name on his lips sounds like a plea and a promise and a warning rolled into one. I can’t talk, so I keep tracing my fingers down the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble catching slightly under my fingertips. His eyes bore into mine, but he doesn't move.

So I do it for him.

I rise onto my toes and kiss him. Slow at first, just a press of lips. An offering.

But when he exhales against my mouth, everything unravels. His hand comes up to cradle the side of my face, the other sliding to my hip as if he can’t bear to only touch me in one place. The kiss deepens instantly, and I let it. I let myself fall.

One small, broken noise escapes me, and Chase groans, swallowing the sound of it. I don’t even register that he’s backed me against the doorframe until I feel it at my spine, his weight pressing into me, the sheer size of him caging me in as his lips drag over mine.

A shudder rolls through me. “Fuck.”

Chase exhales a laugh, but there’s no amusement in it, just hunger. His forehead presses against mine, breathing ragged. “You don’t know what you just did.”

I fist my hands in his hair, pulling his mouth back onto mine, reclaiming the space between us. “Make me regret it, then.”

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe me. Maybe we both just snap.