CHAPTER forty-three #4
He told me yesterday that he, Elijah, and a few of their teammates were driving up to Sunrise to watch the Panthers take on the Anaheim Ducks at Amerant Bank Arena. It's only 8:30—no way the game's over yet.
And that arena's more than an hour from Miami, which means... he literally left mid-game to come here?
"Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "But you weren't responding to my messages, and I got worried. So...I drove back."
"What?" My voice comes out higher than usual. "Why?"
He gives me that look—the one that somehow makes me feel both seen and mildly called out.
"Because I knew you'd be like this. You look exhausted. And I'm guessing you haven't eaten either, and you're not planning to, because you're too tired to move."
Damn, it's honestly creepy how well he knows me.
I can't help the guilty little smile tugging at my lips as I look at him, caught red-handed in my exhaustion.
Zach sighs, shaking his head as he steps past me into the room before I can even invite him in. Typical.
I close the door and turn to follow him—only then noticing the takeout bags in his hands. He sets them carefully on my desk like he's unveiling treasure.
"How about your friends?" I ask, stepping beside him.
"They still went," he says, opening the bag and releasing the glorious smell of food. "Elijah had to share a ride with the twins since we were both supposed to take my car."
I glance at the food, then back at him, and suddenly my stomach growls loud enough to answer for me.
Zach pulls out the chair for me, nodding toward it. "Sit," he says softly.
And like the obedient, half-dead human I am, I do.
He starts unpacking the food—setting each container down carefully like he's presenting a five-star meal instead of takeout. The smell hits instantly: grilled chicken, steamed broccoli glistening with a drizzle of olive oil, and another dish that looks like stir-fried beef with veggies.
I pick up the fork and start tasting each one, a little bite here, a little bite there.
My head bobs in approval, and I hum softly. "Mmm. These are actually really good."
"Glad you like it."
I take a bigger bite, savoring the taste—the beef's tender, the broccoli's perfectly crisp, and the chicken melts in my mouth. Then I notice Zach staring at me, that amused smile tugging at his lips.
I raise a brow. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
His grin widens, eyes sparkling. "Because I love seeing you enjoy the food."
"You're ridiculous." I laugh, shaking my head. "And don't just stand there, Westbrook—help me finish this. I'm not going down alone against all this."
"Oh, you don't have to tell me twice," he says, grabbing a fork and digging in beside me.
Before I know it, we're eating and laughing, stealing bites off each other's containers like it's a competition. He keeps making dumb comments about the "broccoli trees," and I threaten to stab him with my fork every few minutes—but we can't stop grinning.
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 was romantic. (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 because I think 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't need to 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.
"I just wanted to help..." I mumble, smiling to myself.
From the desk, he glances at me over his shoulder, smirking. "Can't I just spoil my woman?"
"Well, if you put it like that, then who am I to argue?"
I try to keep a straight face, but my lips twitch into a smile I can't hide. My heart's doing this ridiculous fluttery thing in my chest, and I swear I can feel heat crawling up my neck.
"Exactly," he says simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Seriously, who bails on his friends, drives an hour back, brings me dinner, and still insists on cleaning?
The man's setting an unrealistic standard for every other human being on earth.
While Zach tosses the empty containers into the trash, he glances over his shoulder. "So, how was rehearsal today?"
I groan softly, leaning forward to massage my calves. "Long. My legs hate me, my back hates me, and I think my brain quit like, two hours in."
He chuckles. "That bad, huh?"
I shrug. "Not bad, just... a lot. We did scene blocking for half the day, and Callahan's being... you know, Callahan—terrifying but effective. It's just exhausting. But hey, part of the job."
"Yeah, but knowing you, you're secretly thriving in all that chaos."
I raise an eyebrow. "Thriving?"
He grins. "Come on, I've seen this pattern before—you'll complain about how drained you are, then five minutes later you'll talk about how it's all 'so fulfilling' or whatever. You love the grind. You're basically powered by stress and applause."
"Yeah, whatever." I laugh, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. "You're so annoying."
He's right, though.
I'm kind of a masochist like that—I complain nonstop about the pain and exhaustion, but deep down, I live for it. There's something weirdly satisfying about feeling like you've poured every ounce of yourself into something you love.
It hurts like hell, but it's the kind of pain that reminds you you're doing something right.
"And yet, you still love me."
I scoff, exasperated. "In your dreams, Westbrook."
He just laughs, heading toward the bathroom. A moment later, I hear the faucet running.
"Oh, tomorrow's kind of exciting, by the way," I call out.
"Why?"
"Tomorrow's costume fitting day!" My tone perks up immediately.
Zach reappears, carrying a small basin of water, chuckling as he shakes his head. "See? Exhausted five seconds ago, now you're glowing."
I squint at the basin. "What's that?"
He smirks, crouching in front of me as he sets it down.
It's filled with water and ice cubes—I didn't even notice him open the freezer. My brows knit together. "Why does that look like something from a torture scene?"
He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, grabs my ankle gently, and dips my foot into the icy water.
"Ahh! Zach!" I hiss, squeezing my eyes shut. The shock of cold bites up my leg, and I jerk like I've been electrocuted. "That's freezing!"
"Give it a minute," he says, voice calm, smug even.
Before I can protest again, he takes my other foot and dunks it in too. "Zach!" I gasp, half laughing, half shrieking. "You are evil."
"Relax, drama queen," he says, "this helps with soreness—reduces inflammation, boosts circulation, all that fun recovery stuff."
I'm about to argue when the cold dulls into a weird, tingly relief. The ache in my feet starts to fade, replaced by this strange lightness. A sigh slips out before I can stop it, my head leaning back.
Zach smirks, his hands moving up to gently massage my calves, thumbs pressing in slow, careful circles. "See? Told you. Doctor Westbrook knows best."
"Oh, shut up," I groan, though it comes out way too blissful to sound convincing.
I open one eye and look at him. "How do you even know all this stuff?"