"If, after that, you still want nothing to do with me—if you still think we're better off as strangers—" He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Then I'll respect it. I'll let you go. I'll stay out of your life for good, even if that's the very last thing I wanna do."
His voice dips, almost breaking. "But give me this, Caroline. Please. Just this one chance to make it right."
I look up at him, really look, and my chest aches at what I find there. His eyes are wide open, pleading, almost raw enough to hurt.
My heart twists, traitorous, wanting to stay—even though every part of my brain is screaming that I shouldn't.
I want to say no. I should say no. Turn around, walk out, save myself the heartbreak.
But that isn't the word that comes out.
"Okay," I whisper, my throat tight as the word scrapes free.
For a moment, he just stands there, like he isn't sure he heard me right. Then his mouth curves—barely, the tiniest twitch at the corner, but it's there. His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of them as he exhales slow.
He takes a single step back, finally giving me enough space to breathe.
Without another word, he crosses the room and sinks down onto the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees. His gaze never leaves me.
I'm still standing by the door like an idiot, my back pressed to it like I need the wood to hold me up.
"You can sit," he says, nodding toward the sofa against the far wall.
I move, careful and stiff, perching on the edge like I might spring back up any second.
"Thanks," I mutter, and it sounds way too formal.
Silence falls over the room. Thick. Stifling.
My eyes dart everywhere but at him. The room is big—way bigger than I expected. It feels less like a dorm and more like a hotel suite. There's even a balcony tucked behind sliding glass doors, curtains pulled half-open to the night.
The space is undeniably his—neat and perfectly put together. Of course it is. Zach's always been a clean freak.
A massive Ridgewater Warriors banner takes up one wall, and there are a few framed posters of hockey legends—Wayne Gretzky in his prime, Alex Ovechkin mid-slapshot. A couple of game pucks sit lined up like trophies on a shelf, perfectly spaced.
When I run out of things to look at, my gaze betrays me and flicks back toward him.
He's still watching me.
My stomach flips, and I look away fast, shifting on the sofa like the cushion's too hot. "You have a big room," I say, my voice a little too bright, a little too casual. "Are all the rooms here this big?"
He shakes his head, leaning back slightly. "Just mine and Elijah's. Team captain and co-captain get the private suites."
I nod, biting back a small laugh. "Must be nice. Bet the rest of the guys are thrilled about that."
"Yeah. They probably aren't thrilled about it, but that's how it's always been." Zach's mouth curves, a quick flash of teeth.
A reluctant laugh slips out of me, quick and quiet, before the silence returns.
The room goes still again. Too still. It feels like we've been sitting here forever, waiting for someone to say something that matters.
My gaze wanders, desperate for somewhere else to land, until it catches on the bed.
Bad idea.
My brain, being its usual traitorous self, decides now is the perfect time to replay the image of Taylor standing there earlier—beside his bed, all polished perfection—and before I can stop myself, my mouth is opening.
"Are you sure this is... okay?"
