"I still can't believe you did that," I say, shaking my head. "The confidence it takes to be that tone-deaf and still grin through it—honestly, I'm impressed."
Zach groans, pressing a hand to his heart. "Tone-deaf? Excuse you, that was raw emotion."
"Raw something," I shoot back, laughing. "Your neck veins nearly popped trying to hit those high notes."
He laughs so hard he nearly spills the cup, and I have to swat his arm to keep him from toppling backward. It's ridiculous. Silly.
And yet—God, it feels good.
The awkwardness that had hovered between us earlier is gone, replaced by the kind of easy comfort I didn't realize I'd been missing.
When the last of the Italian ice disappears, I glance at the empty cup and sigh. "You know what would've made this moment perfect?"
Zach turns, brows raised. "What?"
"Whipped cream." I grin, shaking my head at myself. "I mean, I've already broken my no-sugar streak tonight. Might as well go all in."
He blinks at me for half a second—then his face lights up with that mischievous, too-proud grin that always means trouble.
"Well," he says, dragging out the word, "good thing I came prepared, then."
Before I can ask what he means, he reaches for the paper bag sitting on the floor and pulls out a can of whipped cream with a triumphant flourish.
My jaw drops. "You're kidding."
"Nope." He shakes the can for emphasis, grinning like a man who's just delivered the Holy Grail. "Here you go."
I can't help it—I clap, genuinely delighted. "Oh my God, I missed this so much."
Zach chuckles, handing it over. "Figures. You always were the only person I knew who could stress-eat whipped cream straight from the can and make it look adorable."
I laugh, the kind that bubbles out before I can stop it.
I take the can, shake it once for good measure, and aim it straight into my mouth. The familiar hiss fills the room, followed by the sweet, airy taste of whipped cream melting on my tongue.It's ridiculous how good it feels—like being a kid again, laughing until my stomach hurt.
Zach bursts out laughing. "Still got it, huh?"
I grin at him, wiping a little cream off my lip with the back of my hand. "Some habits never die."
"Yeah? Lemme see that."
He reaches for the can, and before I can stop him, he tilts his head back and sprays a perfect swirl into his mouth like it's some kind of competitive sport. A little splat lands on his chin, and I completely lose it.
"Smooth," I manage between laughs.
He swipes it off with his thumb, mock-offended. "Don't judge greatness."
We keep passing the can back and forth, laughing harder each time—him pretending to measure who can hold the whipped cream longer before swallowing, me accusing him of cheating. It's absurd, childish, and absolutely perfect.
For a moment, it's like time rewinds. I can almost see us again—two kids sitting on my porch steps after one of his games, sticky fingers, the same can between us, the same easy laughter filling the summer air.
Only now, we're older. The world's heavier. And yet, somehow, this—this silly, sweet little thing—still feels just as magical.
He hands me the can back and I align the nozzle of the whipped cream over my open mouth while Zach's halfway through some dumb story about how, when we were ten, I dared him to see who could fit more whipped cream in their mouth without choking—and howheended up sneezing it all over my face instead.
I'm mid-laugh, the memory already making my stomach hurt, when I press the nozzle a little too hard.
A jet of whipped cream shoots straight into my mouth and keeps going—overflowing down my chin and onto my sweatshirt.
