Page 62

Chapter forty-two

Phil the eye bruise

Zoe

T he apartment is quiet in that soft, golden-hour kind of way, sunlight pooling against the couch cushions and warming the hardwood floor.

I haven’t turned the TV off yet, haven’t even moved from my spot on the couch, legs curled beneath me, one of Chase’s hoodies swallowing my frame.

It still smells like him—clean and warm and stupidly comforting.

It’s been over a week since the assault. Ten days since I came home with my fury and bruises and a heart so sore I wasn’t sure it would ever beat normally again.

But I’m okay.

I pressed charges against Nate the morning after, and Charlie came with me. I was still in a daze, but I signed every form and gave my statement. Let them take photos of the bruises I couldn’t even look at.

The officer handling the case told me Chase won’t be facing anything. Apparently the footage, the markings on my wrists, and the emergency alert data were more than enough to label it self-defense. Reasonable force. Necessary, even.

As for Nate, he’s in custody. They’ve found more screenshots, logs, a burner account that traces back months.

DMs he never sent. A draft folder full of messages he wrote and rewrote like he was having a one-sided conversation with a version of me that never existed.

The officer said he fixated on me because I was visible.

Accessible. Because I got too close to someone Nate idolized and didn’t believe I deserved.

I wasn’t a person to him, I was a symbol. A threat. He wanted to humiliate me, ruin me. Scare me into leaving Chase alone for good.

He’s being held without bail. There’s talk of more charges, especially after they traced activity back to Pulse’s private servers.

That part still makes me sick—how easily he got in, how long he watched.

But it’s not my job to carry that anymore.

My job is healing. Living. Reclaiming everything he tried to make me afraid of.

I try not to think about what could’ve happened if Chase hadn’t found me.

Instead, I think about the coffee.

The cinnamon rolls and the bagels.

The little bottles of nail polish that started showing up on my doorstep with handwritten tags. Soft lilac. Seafoam green. Not a single red.

I think about the banana bread. The fruit salad I pretended to hate but ate in two sittings. The way every small delivery made me feel anchored again, if only for a moment. Seen and remembered. Wanted.

And through it all, he’s never pushed. Not once.

He just keeps showing me he's here. So quiet and constant and Chase .

It’s been over a week of soft contact. Texts with jokes and GIFs and “ Good luck, Walton ” texts before his games. Ten days of him reminding me, in the most unassuming ways, that I’m still Zoe. That I’m still allowed to want and still someone worth wanting.

And I want him, more than anything.

I do.

But there’s a tight coil of fear in my chest that hasn’t gone away, because the girl he fell for, the one who made him laugh until he nearly dropped his stick, who snapped back at every chirp with a better one… that girl hasn’t felt real in days.

I miss her, and I hate that I don’t know if she’s coming back. I don’t want to see him when I’m like this. Quieter, dimmer. Half-me. And I don’t know how to explain that I’m trying to come back to her, but right now, I don’t feel like enough.

The TV hums low in the background now while Charlie fusses in the kitchen, trying to find a clean bottle for Theo.

We’ve just finished dinner—she said she wanted to watch the game with me since her parents are babysitting Noah and Meadow.

But I know the truth. She’s here to make sure I don’t fall apart when no one’s looking.

Chase played well tonight. Two points and no fights. He did catch a stray fist when he jumped in to protect a rookie on the other team, though. It was reckless and noble and entirely him .

“Chase Walton, two points tonight and one hell of a fight in the second—”

My head snaps toward the screen, and there he is.

Hair damp, bruise curling under one eye, still in his jersey with a towel around his neck. He looks wrecked and beautiful.

Mine.

The reporter throws a question about the altercation, about composure and aggression, and how he balances the two.

“Some things get under your skin,” Chase says. “Make you play harder. Hit heavier. Stay in the game longer than you probably should.”

There’s a pause, and then the reporter asks if there’s anything else he’d like to say. Chase’s gaze sharpens. He nods, and then he locks onto the camera. My heart lurches, because I know— I know —he’s looking at me.

“Still here,” he says softly. “Still showing up, every game.” I swear my heart stops as he pauses for another beat, his signature smirk curling at the side. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

I lean back into the couch and stare at the screen even after the interview cuts to highlights, Chase’s words echoing in my head.

“You gonna go see him now?” Charlie asks, her voice gentle. “Talk it out?”

I don’t answer right away because I don’t know how. I want to, but I’m terrified. Because I’m not sure if I’ll shatter or come alive the second I’m close to him again.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

***

I’m lying in the dark, phone resting on my chest, weighing a ton more than it should. Charlie and Theo left hours ago, and I still can’t rest. The clip of Chase’s blue eyes boring through the camera and into my soul keeps playing on repeat in my head.

I know he was talking to me. I know it.

And I should’ve texted him earlier. Something light and happy, to tell him he had a good game. To say I was proud of him for the way he handled that brawl on the ice and looked out for the rookie. To tell him I miss him.

But I didn’t.

Now, with the night wrapped around me and my chest heavy with everything I still haven’t said, I pick up my phone.

Me: That post-game bruise was really stealing your thunder tonight

It delivers instantly, and his reply comes faster than I expect.

Chase: Hi

Chase: Also ouch

Chase: Also hi again

A laugh bubbles in my throat before I can stop it.

Me: Just saying. That eye’s gonna need its own jersey

Chase: Might start charging it rent, or at least make it a team mascot

Me: Please don’t.

Chase: Too late. already named it Phil

Me: Phil??

Chase: Phil the eye bruise. huge locker room presence. massive morale guy

Me: You’re such a menace.

Chase: Missed that word coming from you

That stops me for a second, and I stare at it. My fingers hover over the screen while I think of something funny to say, something that deflects the sting of missing him. But I can’t.

So instead, I just… tell the truth.

Me: I miss you too.

His typing bubble appears. Disappears. Comes back.

Chase: So you watched?

Me: Yeah.

Chase: And?

Me: You’re still ridiculous, but that ice brawl is gonna go viral

Chase: I was talking to you after, you know that, right?

Me: I know. I heard it

I stare at the screen for a moment, debating how much more I’m willing to say, when the screen lights up with an incoming video call. My breath stutters, and I hesitate for half a second, then swipe to answer.

The screen flickers, then steadies. And there he is

Chase. Messy hair, shadowed eyes. Hoodie pulled up. He’s lying on his side in bed, one hand propping up his head so casually, as if this is normal and we haven’t been tiptoeing around each other for days.

“Hey,” he says softly.

I can’t speak for a second. I just stare at him and try to breathe him in through the pixels.

His voice drops even lower, eyes scanning my face, gentle and cataloguing.

“You okay?”

“No,” I say honestly. “But I think I will be.”

His jaw tightens. “You don’t have to be anything, you know. Not for me.”

I blink hard, trying not to cry at the sound of his voice saying exactly what I needed to hear.

“That’s the problem,” I murmur. “I want to be everything for you.”

“You already are, sweetheart.”

My throat tightens, and I nod once, swallowing down the sob that’s trying to escape my throat. Neither of us talk for a while, we just look.

It’s stupid. And healing. And intimate in a way I wasn’t expecting.

His eyes roam over me—soft, searching, full of the three words I know he wants to say.

“Zo…”

I swallow again. “Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

Three words, but different. Not fancy and not a dramatic declaration, but they still land with impact. I close my eyes, just for a second. Just to keep the ache from spilling out too fast.

He shifts slightly, as though he wants to reach through the screen and pull me in—to his bed, his arms, his orbit. Into the world we’d been building before everything fell apart.

“When can I see you?” he asks, his voice careful but hopeful. “We don’t have to talk too much, I just… need to see you.”

I open my mouth, then close it again.

“I just wanna make sure I’m me before I see you.”

His expression folds, and he frowns, nodding slowly.

“You are you.”

“No, I’m not. I’m…” I pause, struggling for words that feel true. “I’m quieter. Smaller. I don’t know where the fun parts of me went. The Zoe you know—I don’t feel like her right now. It’s like someone turned the volume down on me and I can’t find the dial.”

He’s quiet, but his eyes don’t move. They stay on me, steady and unflinching, unwilling to ignore any piece of my outpouring.

“You don’t need to be full volume, Zo,” he says quietly. “You could stop talking forever, and I’d still hear you louder than anyone else.”

A single tear rolls down my face, and all I can do is press my palm to the screen, hoping it might hold me up. Or hold him in. He mirrors me, his hand against the screen, eyes fierce but tender.

“You could come back in pieces, Zoe. I’ll still want every single one.”

I look at him, throat raw, heart clawing its way up my ribs.

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough yet.”

He doesn’t even blink.

“Then be scared, baby. Be whatever you need to be. I’m still gonna be here ready to hold every piece.”

The silence that follows is soft and sacred. We let it settle between us, something safe instead of something empty. Something just for us.

Eventually, he smiles. “So. Wanna see Phil?”

I groan, burying my face in the pillow, but there’s laughter there too. A kind of catharsis I hadn’t expected.

“Please don’t name your bruises. You’re already exhausting.”

“You love it,” he says, cocky grin slipping into place like it never left.

The worst part?

I do . I really, really do.

But the best?

For the first time in ten days, I don’t feel broken.

I feel like me.