“I’m still going to keep working with him,” I say before I can stop myself. “I know you don’t like it, but it’s… it’s important.”
Zach’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t speak right away, and the silence between us stretches.
Finally, I break it. “I didn’t say I don’t like it.”
“Maybe not.” His mouth twitches and something unreadable flashes across his face. “I just… don’t like what it does to you.”
I have no answer for that because I feel it. I know it’s making me distant, and nothing seems to help how I feel about who I am right now, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t fix it, and living with it clearly isn’t working either.
Instead of talking, I sip my coffee, trying not to flinch under the weight of his gaze. The room feels too still, too quiet—just the heavy beat of his concern pressing in and around me.
Zach pushes off the dresser, crosses the room, and gently brushes his fingers through my hair before tucking a strand behind my ear. “Okay,” he says softly, as though I said anything that would make him promise not to fight me on it. “If it matters to you, then I’ll find a way to be okay with it.”
I nod, though I don’t feel steady enough to mean it.
He hesitates, then reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “Actually... there's something I wanted to show you.” He pulls up a photo and sits back down beside me, angling the screen so I can see. “I know you've been worried. About me keeping things from you, but I'm not. Remember that note you found in my sock drawer a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah?”
“This is what it’s about.” I stare at the intricate honeycomb design on his screen. It's beautiful, the pattern delicately woven together with a small bee tucked into one corner.
“What is it?”
“A tattoo. I’ve been working with the artist, Hailey, to come up with the perfect design for you.”
“For me?” I sputter out. “You’re not actually going to get this, are you?”
He shrugs, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I wanted to. Wanted to commemorate your birthday. Thought it'd be nice to always have you with me, you know?” He gestures vaguely toward his left forearm. “Right here.”
The gesture is so sweet it makes my heart hurt, but all I can think about is how permanent that is. How much it means. “Zach...”
“I know.” He locks his phone and sets it aside. “Maybe it's too much. I just—I wanted you to know I'm not hiding anything from you. That's all it was.”
The knot in my throat tightens because he's trying so hard to reassure me, to prove something I should already believe, and here I am, making him feel like he has to.
He bends to press a kiss on the top of my head, lingering there for a second, then he pulls back.
“I’ll let you get dressed,” he says quietly, heading for the door. “Come down when you’re ready. I’ll drive you to campus so you don’t miss your classes.”
When he disappears down the hall, I stare at the mug between my hands and try to convince myself that it will be alright.
Because it will be… right?
The weight of the pass snaps into my hands with a satisfying smack, and the familiar sting bites across my palms. The field smells like freshly cut grass and sweat, and every sound is too loud—cleats tear at the turf, helmets clash, and whistles shriek across the gridiron.
But my head’s not in it.
While the rest of the guys reset for the next drill, I’m standing on the sideline with my helmet tucked under my arm as I read through Jenni’s text again.
Jenni??:Hey! Can we meet Thursday night around 8? Need to go over final details for Honey's party. I’ll send you the bar address later. If you invite your football friends and Chris brings his teammates, this should turn into a good night!??
My body recoils at the mere idea of having to spend any more time with Jenni, but after last night, I need to know what happened, and what the fuck she said to my girl to make her cower into herself.
Yes, I’ll help her plan this party, for Honey’s sake, because she deserves to see just how many people love her, but that doesn’t mean I won’t grill the shit out of her supposed best friend.
“Evans!” Coach Summers’s voice tears across the field. “You joining practice or just here to record your too-pretty face for TikTok?”
“Sorry, Coach,” I mumble, toss the phone on the bench, shove my helmet back on, and jog to the huddle.