Somehow, the exhaustion in my body just... lifts.
It's been like this lately. Every time we eat together, I stop thinking so hard about it. I don't count bites anymore, or run numbers in my head, or punish myself with guilt for eating more than I planned.
He doesn't know how much that means.
Or maybe he does—because Zach's been quietly keeping his promise to help me find joy in eating again. He's made a habit of it, really—always finding ways for us to share meals, snacks, coffee breaks, whatever. Somehow, he always makes sure I'm not doing it alone.
It didn't happen overnight, though.
God, no.
I was stubborn at first—still stuck in my old mindset, still convinced that if I ate a little more than usual, I had to"make up for it"by working out double. I'd drag myself to the gym after dinner, trying to burn away guilt instead of calories.
And Zach—because he's Zach—never tried to talk me out of it. He just started showing up too.
Even after his three-hour hockey practices, when he's already drenched in sweat and could easily pass out in the locker room, he'd still stroll into the gym like it's his second home.
I've told him, more times than I can count, that he doesn't need to do that—that he should rest instead.
He'd just grin and shrug, all smug and stupidly charming.
"Can't risk leaving you alone there,"he'd say."What if some guy tries to flirt with you while you're doing squats? Gotta protect what's mine."
And then, as if that wasn't cheesy enough, he added,"Besides, a couple that sweats together stays forever."
I nearly choked on my protein shake.
"Zach, that sounds like a deodorant slogan."
He just laughed, claiming it wasromantic.(It wasn't.)
But the truth is, I know why he does it.
Not because he thinks I need to burn off every extra bite, but becauseIthink I do. Because he knows that being there—side by side, matching my pace—helps keep me from pushing too far.
And maybe... because part of him still feels guilty.
He never says it out loud, but I can see it in the way he always shows up for me, no matter how tired he is. The guilt of knowing his words back then—the ones he didn't mean, but I heard loud and clear—were what sent me spiraling in the first place. He knows that. I know that.
And maybe this is his way of making it right.
He'll keep doing it, I think—staying beside me every step of the way—until the day comes when I finally believe I don'tneedto anymore.
When I can walk into the gym just because I want to... not because I feel like I have to.
When we're done eating, I start stacking the empty containers, reaching for the plastic forks. "Okay, I'll clean this up."
Before I can take two steps, Zach stops me with a quick, "Nope. Sit."
I blink. "What?"
He points to my bed like a strict but very cute hall monitor. "Go. Sit down."
I try to protest, hands still half full of takeout boxes. "Zach, seriously, I can help. You bought the food—"
"Caroline," he says, cutting me off with a playful hiss and a mock glare, "go sit on your bed."
I let out a small laugh, but I do as I'm told, walking a few steps and sinking onto the edge of the mattress.
