The word dies in my throat.
My eyes fly wide, a sharp jolt firing through me, like my heart skipped then slammed back into place too hard. Because someone is sitting there. Not Sam.
Him.
Even in the dim, I know. My body knows before my brain catches up. There's only one person who can make my pulse stumble like this.
A flick of movement, then the switch clicks, flooding the room in light.
And there he is. Zach.
Sitting back on Sam's bed like he owns the air in the room, elbows resting on his knees, big hands clasped loosely. His posture is lazy, casual, but the grin stretched across his mouth is sharp enough to slice through the oxygen. That grin I used to know too well.
His eyes catch mine, bright and unflinching. Like he's been waiting for me to walk through that door.
"Hey, Sugarplum."
The way he says it—it's maddening. Like he's been calling me that every single day for the last three years instead of zero. The nickname rolls off his tongue with so much ease, so much familiarity, that it practically sneaks under my skin. Warm. Dangerous. Like it never left.
My heart skips, traitor that it is.
So, I cross my arms tight over my chest, the makeshift shield I desperately need. Barrier up. Because Zach Westbrook is sitting there in my dorm room, flashing that boyish grin I know too damn well—the one he only ever pulled out when he'd screwed up and needed forgiveness.
God, how many times had that grin talked me down from being pissed? Too many.
Not tonight.
I smooth my face before he can see the ripple he caused and force the ice into my tone. "What are you doing in my dorm, Zach? And how the hell did you even know this was my room?"
His brows shoot up, mouth quirking like he can't believe I just asked that. His expression says it all:really, Caroline? Seriously?Like the answer should be stamped across my forehead.
I huff, dragging in an infuriated breath and flinging my arms out in the air. "Of course..." I mutter, rolling my eyes. "That little minx really can't keep a secret."
"To be fair, she did keep it. For over a month." His eyes dance with mischief as he chuckles low in his chest. "For Sam's character, that's practically a world record. Normally she cracks in, what? A day?"
My lips twitch—damn it.
He's right, and the laugh bubbles dangerously close to the surface. I bite the inside of my cheek, jaw clamping tight, refusing to let it out. Not giving him that satisfaction.
Not this time.
"Where is Sam, anyway?" My arms stay crossed, but my voice comes out sharp as a blade. "She sent me a 9-1-1 me—wait a minute." My eyes narrow, suspicion clicking into place.
I glare at him, heat rising in my chest. "Don't tell me she—oh my God. She did. Didn't she?"
Fury propels me across the room. I march back to the wall rack, yank my bag down, and dig for my phone like I'm ready to strangle someone through the screen. My fingers fly over the screen, stabbing the letters hard enough to put a dent in the glass.
I open Sam's messages, her name glowing at the top, and start typing like my thumbs have a personal vendetta.
Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. I should've known. The little traitor.
I actually dropped everything—cut rehearsal short with Adam, ran lines at lightning speed, sprinted back here in full panic—because I thought she was bedridden, dying, or bawling her eyes out.
"Oh, I'm going to kill her," I mutter, thumbs still attacking the keyboard. "I'm going to tie her up with her own glittery scarves and drop her in the fountain in front of the Student Union."
"She used our sacred 9-1-1 code for this! Foryou. She knows it's only supposed to be used when it's life-or-death emergencies!"
One of his brows ticks up, and of course he knows—he was there when we came up with it. He knows how serious that code always was.
