I swing the door open—and freeze.
"Zach?"
He's standing there, looking unfairly good for someone who's supposed to be at the Amerant Bank Arena right now. His smile is soft, eyes warm, though it falters a little as he looks me over.
"Hey, sugarplum."
I blink, completely thrown. "Wait—aren't you supposed to be at the Panthers game right now?"
He told me yesterday that he, Elijah, and a few of their teammates were driving up to Sunrise to watch the Panthers take on the Anaheim Ducks at Amerant Bank Arena. It's only 8:30—no way the game's over yet.
And that arena's more than an hour from Miami, which means... he literally left mid-game to come here?
"Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "But you weren't responding to my messages, and I got worried. So...I drove back."
"What?" My voice comes out higher than usual. "Why?"
He gives me that look—the one that somehow makes me feel both seen and mildly called out.
"Because I knew you'd be like this. You look exhausted. And I'm guessing you haven't eaten either, and you're not planning to, because you're too tired to move."
Damn, it's honestly creepy how well he knows me.
I can't help the guilty little smile tugging at my lips as I look at him, caught red-handed in my exhaustion.
Zach sighs, shaking his head as he steps past me into the room before I can even invite him in. Typical.
I close the door and turn to follow him—only then noticing the takeout bags in his hands. He sets them carefully on my desk like he's unveiling treasure.
"How about your friends?" I ask, stepping beside him.
"They still went," he says, opening the bag and releasing the glorious smell of food. "Elijah had to share a ride with the twins since we were both supposed to take my car."
I glance at the food, then back at him, and suddenly my stomach growls loud enough to answer for me.
Zach pulls out the chair for me, nodding toward it. "Sit," he says softly.
And like the obedient, half-dead human I am, I do.
He starts unpacking the food—setting each container down carefully like he's presenting a five-star meal instead of takeout. The smell hits instantly: grilled chicken, steamed broccoli glistening with a drizzle of olive oil, and another dish that looks like stir-fried beef with veggies.
I pick up the fork and start tasting each one, a little bite here, a little bite there.
My head bobs in approval, and I hum softly. "Mmm. These are actually really good."
"Glad you like it."
I take a bigger bite, savoring the taste—the beef's tender, the broccoli's perfectly crisp, and the chicken melts in my mouth. Then I notice Zach staring at me, that amused smile tugging at his lips.
I raise a brow. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
His grin widens, eyes sparkling. "Because I love seeing you enjoy the food."
"You're ridiculous." I laugh, shaking my head. "And don't just stand there, Westbrook—help me finish this. I'm not going down alone against all this."
"Oh, you don't have to tell me twice," he says, grabbing a fork and digging in beside me.
Before I know it, we're eating and laughing, stealing bites off each other's containers like it's a competition. He keeps making dumb comments about the "broccoli trees," and I threaten to stab him with my fork every few minutes—but we can't stop grinning.
