CHAPTER thirty-five #12
No, I think he knew I needed silence. Space to think. To breathe.
And that... that's what undoes me most.
Because for all his chaos and teasing and charm, there's still that side of him that's quietly thoughtful—the one who knows when to push and when to give me time.
Zach Westbrook, the guy who used to roll his eyes at anything remotely sappy, went and pulled off the most grand, public, ridiculous, heart-melting confession I've ever seen.
And now here I am, soaking in rosewater, still replaying every second of it—his voice, his grin, the way he looked at me—like I'm stuck in some perfect, slow-motion daydream I never want to end.
Steam curls around me, soft and hazy, wrapping the room in a pink blur of heat and perfume. The scent of rose clings to the air, dizzying and sweet. My skin tingles everywhere the water touches, like every nerve decided to wake up at once.
I close my eyes, and there he is again—Zach.
A shiver runs through me. I sink deeper into the water, chasing warmth that's already too much, too deep.
My heart's pounding, unsteady, wild. I try to breathe it away, to calm the storm curling low in my stomach, but every thought circles back to him—his grin, his voice, the heat in his eyes when he said forever and always.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Hear him. Feel the weight of his voice, rough and tender all at once, echoing inside me.
I shift, restless, and the water in the tub moves with me—slow, heavy, teasing against my skin. My breath stutters, my hands trembling under the surface. It's like my body knows what it wants before I can admit it.
My legs part, knees bending just a little, allowing the heat of the water to envelop me fully. I dip my head back and exhale as my hand travels downward.
My lips parting in a soft, involuntary gasp when my fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves. Heat blooms low in my stomach, spreading fast, uncoiling.
At first, I only brush against the outer folds—tentative, feather-light strokes that send shivers up my spine and make my thighs quiver.
My fingers are slick, water and desire mingling, and I marvel at how sensitive I am, how the slightest touch makes my hips buck, my body straining for more.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the sounds threatening to escape my throat, but as my fingertip circles, slow and deliberate, I can't help but let a breathy moan slip from my lips.
My hips rock back and forth in the water as my fingers work their magic.
Soft groans fill the quiet room, broken only by the hiss of the bubbles and the slap of my body against the slick surface. Each stroke against my sensitive nub sends a jolt of electricity through my body, making my toes curl and my stomach muscles tense.
The scent of roses grows heavier, thicker, cloying but intoxicating.
"Fuck..." The pressure builds within me, growing stronger by the second. The tension between pleasure and pain intensifies as I relentlessly tease myself closer to the brink of orgasm.
A shiver runs through me as the mixture of sensations becomes almost too much to bear. I try to focus on anything but what I'm doing—the taste of roses on my tongue, the faint ripple of water brushing against porcelain—but it's no use.
My vision goes hazy as my climax approaches.
My hand moves faster, pressure building... spiraling.
And a starburst of pleasure explodes behind my eyelids when I finally come, hips jerking forward as my voice breaks the silence once again.
As I push myself up from the tub and reach for a towel, I catch sight of myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, damp skin, hair a tangled mess.
Heat rushes to my face all over again.
God, what did I just do?
The embarrassment prickles under my skin, but... I can't deny it.
I needed that. Desperately.
I towel off, slip into my pajamas—if you can even call them that. An oversized pale-pink crewneck sweatshirt that practically swallows me whole and soft cotton shorts that barely peek from underneath. It's cozy, warm, and exactly what my post-bath self needs.
I'm just about to crawl into bed when a low knock echoes from my balcony door.
My entire body goes rigid.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 12:39 a.m.
Oh, hell no.
Every true-crime podcast I've ever half-listened to starts replaying in my head. Who the hell knocks on a balcony door at almost one in the morning? A burglar? A stalker? A serial killer with excellent upper-body strength?
My pulse skyrockets. I freeze, mentally mapping out my escape route—run to Mom and Dad's room, call the police, grab a lamp for self-defense—because it's 2025, and women who check suspicious noises don't make it to the sequel.
Another knock.
"Caroline?"
I nearly scream—until I recognize the voice.
Zach.
Of course it's Zach.
My knees go weak with relief, my heart still doing Olympic-level gymnastics in my chest. Not a criminal. Just a six-foot-three human chaos magnet.
The relief morphs into confusion almost instantly.
What's he even doing out there? It's the middle of the night. He was supposed to be dead asleep.
I march toward the balcony, part the heavy curtain and there he is—standing outside in the dim porch light.
He's wearing a soft heather-gray sweatsuit, hoodie pulled up just enough to shadow his jaw. Not a single trace of exhaustion on his face—just that boyish grin that looks way too awake for this hour.
Seriously, does he run on adrenaline and stubbornness alone?
Brows drawn tight, I unlock the door and swing it open, the cool night air rushing in.
"What are you doing here this late, Zach?"
He scratches the back of his neck, that sheepish grin tugging at his lips.
"Couldn't sleep," he admits, voice low and rough in the quiet. "Guess I've still got adrenaline running through me. Happens after big games sometimes—especially one like that. My body's tired, but my head's wide awake."
He shrugs, eyes flicking past me into the soft glow of my room. "Then I saw your lights still on and thought maybe we could bring back one of our old habits—staying up too late, talking about random stuff until one of us falls asleep."
Before I can reply, he nudges the balcony door open a little wider and steps inside. That's when I notice the paper bag in his hand.
I cross my arms, half amused, half exasperated. "What made you think I'd let you sleep in my room?"
Zach laughs, holding up one hand in mock surrender. "Relax, I'm kidding. Mostly." His grin deepens. "But I wasn't kidding about wanting to stay up for a bit. Just... talk."
My pulse skips. "Talk? About what?"
My mind immediately flashes to that—his little stunt earlier. Maybe he's finally ready to talk about it. But what exactly am I supposed to say?
That I liked it? That my heart wouldn't stop doing backflips while he was serenading me? That it was hands-down the most ridiculous, sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me?
Or should I tell him that his chaotic, tone-deaf, beautiful performance somehow left me so hot and bothered I ended up having one of the most satisfying orgasms I've had in awhile?
Yeah. Probably not that.
My cheeks heat so fast I'm surprised the whole room doesn't light up pink. I silently thank every deity that he can't read minds.
Zach just shrugs. "Anything," he says. "We never needed a reason before, right? We'd just talk about whatever came to mind—movies, weird dreams, that time you tried to convince me ghosts were real..."
His tone softens, eyes meeting mine. "It wasn't about what we talked about. It was about... us. Just being there. Staying up because neither of us really wanted the night to end."
My throat tightens. The way he says it—quiet, nostalgic, sincere—pulls something in me I can't quite fight.
So I don't.
He sinks onto the couch near the window, elbows resting on his knees. He looks around with that soft, faraway smile—like he's realizing everything's still the same.
The walls are still painted a soft blush, the same color Mom called "cotton candy pink.
" Posters of Taylor Swift still plaster the walls like teenage wallpaper, corners curling slightly from age.
My shelves are still lined with neat stacks of concert merch—vinyls, albums, the old "Red" scarf folded perfectly next to my signed CD.
Honestly, it's less of a room and more of a Taylor Swift shrine at this point.
The fairy lights draped over my headboard cast a warm, honey glow, illuminating the photo strings above my bed—snapshots of my family, Sam, my friends from the theater club in high school. Frozen little pieces of before.
And maybe that's the only thing that's changed—the before.
Because the pictures of us, the ones that used to fill most of that wall, are gone. I'd taken them down three years ago, tucked them neatly into a box along with every ticket stub, letter, and tiny piece of him I couldn't quite throw away.
Everything except the locket.
His gaze lingers there for a moment, long enough that I can tell he notices what's missing. His smile falters—barely—but it's enough to make my chest ache.
The silence that follows is strange. Not tense, not really awkward, just... cautious. Like we're both relearning how to breathe the same air again.
I clear my throat, because the silence's starting to feel too heavy, too full of things neither of us knows how to say.
"Are you sure it's fine that you didn't celebrate your win tonight with your teammates?"
He lets out a small laugh, leaning back against the couch. "Yeah, of course it's fine. Why wouldn't it be?"
I shrug, picking at the hem of my shorts. "I don't know. Maybe because it's important for... team morale or something? Don't you usually celebrate with them after every game?"
"Nah. It's all good." His grin softens, almost boyish.
"Besides, we always throw one big party every Sunday night to celebrate our wins anyway." He glances at the clock on my nightstand and grins. "Which, technically, is today."