He doesn't care that he sounds like he gargled gravel before walking out here. He's grinning through every offbeat note, moving down the steps like it's his personal stage.
And I just stand there, completely frozen, heart pounding so hard it's a miracle the entire arena can't hear it too.
Because somehow—despite the noise, the lights, the sheerinsanityof it all—it's only him I see.
He hits the next part of the song, completely mangling the pitch but nailing the energy.
"But she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts!"
He points to himself, doing this dramatic little hip pop and pretending to flick imaginary hair over his shoulder—then spins, jabbing a finger straight toward me in the stands.
The crowderupts.
"She's Cheer Captain, and I'm on the bleachers!"
He actuallykneelson one step, beating his fist against his chest like he's performing a tragic Broadway number, and a group of girls behind him shriek like they've just been proposed to.
My mouth drops open. He's insane. Absolutely insane.
By the time he reaches,"Dreaming about the day when you wake up and find that what you're looking for has been here the whole time,"he's grinning right at me—no,throughme.
Every word, every goofy, offbeat gesture, every deliberately over-the-top wink—it's all for me.
And God help me, I laugh. I can't not.
It bursts out, unfiltered and helpless, somewhere between horror and complete adoration. Because this is Zach in his purest form—loud, shameless, making a fool of himself, and somehow still managing to look stupidly hot while doing it.
The crowd starts singing along, the whole arena vibrating with laughter and cheers. Even the Ridgewater pep band joins in, horns and drums echoing across the rink like they've been rehearsing this madness all week.
Zach struts his way halfway down the bleachers, microphone raised high, and when the chorus hits.
"If you could see that I'm the one who understands you..."—he points at himself, then right at me.
Phones flash everywhere, catching him mid-grin, and my heart justfree-falls.
Because the way he's looking at me?
It's the same way he always used to—like I'm the only person in the world who exists right now.
And maybe that's why, despite every ounce of embarrassment flooding my veins, I find myself quietly singing along too.
The crowd's still going wild when the music cuts, leaving only the echo of Zach's voice and my heart doing Olympic gymnastics in my chest. He's grinning—sweaty, flushed, and stupidly handsome—and for a second, I actually forget how to breathe.
Then he lifts the mic again, eyes locked on me.
"You once told me," he says, his voice echoing through the speakers, "that you kept singing this song to me—hoping one day I'd realize you were in love with me. That I'd finally look at you and see you. That I'd figure out I belonged to no one but you.."
He starts moving—slow, unhurried steps down the bleachers, every stride pulling him closer.
"I'm sorry," he goes on, "I didn't get that you were trying to tell me how you felt about me all those times you sang it. I thought you just... really liked that song."
A few people laugh.
I roll my eyes at him.
"I should have known that song was your love letter to me."
He's getting closer—close enough that I can see the tiny dimple at the corner of his grin, but still just out of reach.
