"Couldn't sleep," he admits, voice low and rough in the quiet. "Guess I've still got adrenaline running through me. Happens after big games sometimes—especially one like that. My body's tired, but my head's wide awake."
He shrugs, eyes flicking past me into the soft glow of my room. "Then I saw your lights still on and thought maybe we could bring back one of our old habits—staying up too late, talking about random stuff until one of us falls asleep."
Before I can reply, he nudges the balcony door open a little wider and steps inside. That's when I notice the paper bag in his hand.
I cross my arms, half amused, half exasperated. "What made you think I'd let you sleep in my room?"
Zach laughs, holding up one hand in mock surrender. "Relax, I'm kidding. Mostly." His grin deepens. "But I wasn't kidding about wanting to stay up for a bit. Just... talk."
My pulse skips. "Talk? About what?"
My mind immediately flashes tothat—his little stunt earlier. Maybe he's finally ready to talk about it. But what exactly am I supposed to say?
That I liked it? That my heart wouldn't stop doing backflips while he was serenading me? That it was hands-down the most ridiculous, sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me?
Or should I tell him that his chaotic, tone-deaf,beautifulperformance somehow left me so hot and bothered I ended up having one of the most satisfying orgasms I've had in awhile?
Yeah. Probably not that.
My cheeks heat so fast I'm surprised the whole room doesn't light up pink. I silently thank every deity that he can't read minds.
Zach just shrugs. "Anything," he says. "We never needed a reason before, right? We'd just talk about whatever came to mind—movies, weird dreams, that time you tried to convince me ghosts were real..."
His tone softens, eyes meeting mine. "It wasn't aboutwhatwe talked about. It was about... us. Just being there. Staying up because neither of us really wanted the night to end."
My throat tightens. The way he says it—quiet, nostalgic, sincere—pulls something in me I can't quite fight.
So I don't.
He sinks onto the couch near the window, elbows resting on his knees. He looks around with that soft, faraway smile—like he's realizing everything's still the same.
The walls are still painted a soft blush, the same color Mom called "cotton candy pink." Posters of Taylor Swift still plasterthe walls like teenage wallpaper, corners curling slightly from age. My shelves are still lined with neat stacks of concert merch—vinyls, albums, the old "Red" scarf folded perfectly next to my signed CD.
Honestly, it's less of a room and more of a Taylor Swift shrine at this point.
The fairy lights draped over my headboard cast a warm, honey glow, illuminating the photo strings above my bed—snapshots of my family, Sam, my friends from the theater club in high school. Frozen little pieces of before.
And maybe that's the only thing that's changed—the before.
Because the pictures ofus, the ones that used to fill most of that wall, are gone. I'd taken them down three years ago, tucked them neatly into a box along with every ticket stub, letter, and tiny piece of him I couldn't quite throw away.
Everything except the locket.
His gaze lingers there for a moment, long enough that I can tell he notices what's missing. His smile falters—barely—but it's enough to make my chest ache.
The silence that follows is strange. Not tense, not really awkward, just... cautious. Like we're both relearning how to breathe the same air again.
I clear my throat, because the silence's starting to feel too heavy, too full of things neither of us knows how to say.
"Are you sure it's fine that you didn't celebrate your win tonight with your teammates?"
He lets out a small laugh, leaning back against the couch. "Yeah, of course it's fine. Why wouldn't it be?"
I shrug, picking at the hem of my shorts. "I don't know. Maybe because it's important for... team morale or something? Don't you usually celebrate with them after every game?"
"Nah. It's all good." His grin softens, almost boyish.
"Besides, we always throw one big party every Sunday night to celebrate our wins anyway." He glances at the clock on my nightstand and grins. "Which, technically, is today."
