My insides do a full somersault.
I bite back a smile — try to, anyway — but it's useless. It spreads across my face like a lovesick idiot, warm and stupid and completely out of my control.
"Me too," I breathe, sounding every bit as gone for him as I feel.
And judging by the way his thumb sweeps over the back of my hand...he knows.
Zach and I arrive at the Pond— the place that become my de facto residence recently.
Why you ask?
Well, that's thanks to Sam.
God bless her blunt little soul.
I can still hear her voice from five nights ago — hands on her hips, ramen bowl in one hand, glaring at us like we'd committed a federal crime.
"If you two are going to be disgusting," she'd said, pointing her chopsticks at us, "can you PLEASE do it somewhere that isn't five feet from where I sleep?"
Zach nearly died trying not to laugh.
I tried to hide behind him.
But Sam? Oh no. She went in for the kill.
"I mean it, Care. I love you. Truly. But the heart-eyes? The cuddling? The giggling? And the way my brother looks at you like you're the last cookie on earth?" She shuddered dramatically.
"Traumatizing. If I catch you two playing tonsil hockey—or worse—one more time, I'm filing for emotional damages. Take your hormonal circus to the Pond. That house was built for this kind of shit. I'm too young to go blind."
Then she literally herded us out of the room like we were overgrown toddlers.
So yeah.
I've been here nearly every night since.
Not that I'm complaining.
And Zach definitely isn't — if the giant, smug grin on his face right now means anything.
He squeezes my hand as we walk to the door. "Welcome home, baby."
"Stop it," I groan, elbowing him. "You're too happy about this."
"Of course I'm happy. My girlfriend's here." He waggles his brows. "Again."
He pushes the door open, still smiling like he can't help it.
And honestly? It does something to me.
SeeingthisZach again — the light in his eyes, the bounce in his voice, the easy warmth — it's like watching the sun come back after weeks of gray skies.
He hasn't been this...himselfin a while. Not since everything with his dad's anniversary. Not since Sam kept getting sick.
But ever since Sam told him yesterday that the doctor cleared her, that everything came back normal, that she was just mildly anemic and needed iron supplements — he's been different. Lighter. Like someone finally cut the weights off his chest.
I remember the way he showed up for dinner last night with his sister, eyes still a little glassy from relief when he told me the good news.
And right after we ate, he drove straight to CVS and bought Sam enough iron gummies, ferrous bisglycinate, iron-boost drinks, and even iron-fortified cereal—basically anything with "iron" on the label.
