CHAPTER fifty-eight
"Stop fussing over me," I try to tease, even though my heart is melting.
He shakes his head. "I can't help it. I just want you to take care of yourself, baby. If I were there, I'd be doing all of that for you."
My stomach flips.
How is one person this soft and this attractive at the same time?
"Okay," I whisper back, pretending I'm not absolutely swooning. "I'll do the ice water. And the stretching. Happy now?"
"Very," he says with that stupid pretty smile. "Now I won't worry."
"Good." I settle deeper into my pillows.
We fall into a soft silence for a moment, just... staring at each other through our screens.
His hotel room light is dim, casting him in this quiet glow.
His hair's still messy.
He looks beautiful.
And I miss him so much it physically hurts.
He breathes out, slow, like the words slip out on their own.
"I want to touch you right now."
The words hit me straight in the sternum. Not sexual. Just pure longing.
My lips part, but nothing comes out for a second.
"I wish you were here," I whisper.
His eyes soften in that devastating way I can never handle. "Me too."
Another beat of silence, heavy and gentle.
"I'd have you right here," he says quietly, tapping the empty space beside him on the pillow. "You'd be under my arm, tucked against me. I'd hold you until you fell asleep."
My whole body warms.
"And you'd steal all the blankets," I murmur.
He smiles like he can feel me teasing him through the screen. "Obviously. And you'd complain, and I'd pretend I didn't notice."
"You always pretend you don't notice."
"Because I like when you curl into me to steal them back."
My breath catches at the sweetness tucked beneath his words.
"I miss that," I say softly.
"I miss everything," he replies. "Your voice. Your smell. The way you laugh when you're half-asleep. Even the way you smack my chest when I tease you too much."
A tiny laugh escapes me. "You deserve those smacks."
"Probably," he says, smiling gently. "Still miss them."
I press the phone a little closer to my chest, trying to soak him in, even though he's miles away.
"I miss you," I whisper again.
His voice drops, low, sincere. "I know. I miss you so much, it's stupid."
And we just stay like that — breathing, watching each other, letting the distance feel a little smaller.
CHAPTER fifty-five
CAROLINE
Backstage is absolute chaos — the loud kind, the buzzing kind, the kind that feels electric under your skin.
Costumes crowd the rolling racks, tulle and velvet and sequins all mashed together like a technicolor forest. Someone's curling iron is sizzling.
Somebody else is complaining about their fake beard slipping off.
Half the cast is reciting lines for the millionth time, pacing like caffeinated zombies, while the other half is screaming reminders at each other even though no one is listening.
And over all of it is Professor Callahan — dressed like she owns Broadway.
She's wearing a floor-length black gown with dramatic sleeves, hair piled high, sparkly earrings shaped like tiny opera masks, and a velvet shawl tossed over one shoulder like she's about to perform an aria instead of supervise a capstone.
"Kyle!" she snaps, pointing at him with a clipboard like it's a weapon. "If you forget your cue one more time, I swear on Shakespeare's ghost I will recast your role in the next ninety seconds!"
Kyle, already sweating in his medieval tunic, mutters, "It's three lines," under his breath.
"And yet you forget two of them," Callahan fires back before sweeping away like a Victorian storm cloud.
Everyone is dressed and ready — corsets, crowns, embroidered jackets, glittering capes, tights, boots, wigs, swords, fake jewels. It looks like a Renaissance fair exploded.
I slip between bodies until I reach the side curtain, lifting it just enough to peek out into the auditorium.
The seats are filling fast.
Parents, friends, professors, strangers — all chatting, settling in, flipping through programs. My eyes scan the assigned family section until I spot them:
Mom and Dad, already waving at someone.
Charlene, sitting right beside Mom, talking animatedly with her hands.
And next to her, Sam, bright and bubbly, dressed nicely, hair curled, makeup soft.
All four of them look relaxed. Happy. Excited.
I wish I felt the same.
I scan the aisles again... looking... searching...
But no Zach. Not yet.
It's only a few minutes after six — his team is probably still clearing the rink, showering, grabbing food. But God, I want to see him before curtain. He always knows exactly what to say to calm me down. He always finds me, even in the worst backstage chaos.
I let the curtain fall back into place and exhale.
My vanity is waiting for me — bulbs warm, mirror fogged slightly from the heat of the room. I settle onto the stool, smoothing my skirt automatically.
My Clara costume is beautiful — a pale, soft-blue dress that falls just past my knees, with delicate lace trimming the sleeves and bodice. The fabric has a faint shimmer under the backstage lights, the kind that makes it look almost ethereal.
My hair is half-up, curled gently, tied with a satin ribbon that matches the dress. Doll shoes on my feet. Light blush, rosy lips, a soft glow on my cheeks.
I actually... look pretty.
I barely have time to admire myself before Adam drops into the seat beside me.
He's in full Nutcracker uniform — navy and gold jacket, cuffs embroidered, white pants, boots polished, hair styled perfectly. His huge wooden Nutcracker head sits on the vanity between us like an extra cast member.
He grins at me through the mirror. "Well, Clara. Ready to wow the masses?"
I laugh under my breath. "I think I'm going to throw up."
"Perfect," he says brightly. "Means you'll do great."
I shake my head. "How about you? Nervous?"
"Extremely," he says. "Which is why I'm hiding beside you. Your presence is very soothing to my fragile performer soul."
I snort. "Liar."
"Okay, fine," he admits. "Your presence is soothing AND you look adorable, so at least if I die onstage tonight, my final vision will be pleasant."
I swat his arm. "Adam!"
"But seriously... all jokes aside?" Adam says, voice dropping into something real.
"You're going to be remarkable tonight. The audience has no idea what they're about to witness.
You're a star, Care. Always have been. And by the end of the showcase"—he flashes me that signature, unfairly charming grin—"they will all be on their feet, giving you a full standing ovation. "
"We're gonna get the standing ovation," I correct him gently. "All of us."
His expression softens.
"Besides," I add, nudging him lightly, "you need the applause to live. It keeps your ego hydrated."
That earns me a wide grin.
"True," he says, nodding with that slow, satisfied look — eyes dipping closed for half a second like he's soaking it in. "You know me well."
Awhile later, the noise backstage starts to swallow the air. People rushing by. Callahan barking final reminders. Someone losing part of their costume. It's suddenly too much.
I slip out the side door into the quieter hallway.
For a second, I just stand there... then the nerves punch right back into my chest.
My heart is thudding so hard it feels like it's trying to stage-dive out of my ribcage.
I start pacing without meaning to — small steps at first, then longer ones, back and forth across the empty corridor. My palms are sweating. My stomach is flipping. I can literally hear my pulse in my ears.
I breathe in. And out.
"You can do this," I whisper, rubbing a hand over my sternum like I can calm the panic with pressure. "You can do this, Caroline. Come on. You've got this. You can—"
"Of course you can."
My whole body reacts instantly.
The tight knot between my shoulders eases, like someone finally loosened a too-tight drawstring.
That frantic, jittery beat in my chest drops into something calmer — not perfect, but no longer trying to punch its way out of me.
It's ridiculous how fast one voice can cut through the noise in my head.
I don't need to turn around.
I'd know him anywhere.
A soft smile touches my lips just before I feel him — two strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against a familiar chest.
Zach.
He fits around me like he always does — like my body was built with a Zach-shaped space carved into it. Warm, steady, anchoring. The kind of embrace that feels less like a hug and more like someone putting your soul back where it belongs.
His chin dips into the curve of my shoulder, that familiar spot he claims every single time.
His nose brushes my neck, slow and deliberate, and he inhales like he's been starving for the smell of me all day.
Maybe longer. His arms tighten around my waist, not urgently, not possessively — just this slow, certain pull that says you're mine, I'm here, breathe.
My knees almost forget they're supposed to hold me up.
I close my eyes, letting myself melt into him, my hand reaching up automatically — instinct, muscle memory, gravity. My fingers find his jaw, warm and defined, and I trace the line of his cheek like I'm relearning him. Like my hand missed the shape of him so much it has to map it again.
"Hey," I breathe.
"You got this, babe," he whispers.
He exhales against my skin, and the warmth of it skims down my spine like
a soft electric shock.
I swear my heart actually changes rhythm for him — settles, steadies, almost sighs.
If safety had a temperature, it would be this.
If comfort had a scent, it would be him.
If home had arms... it would be these.
Slowly, I pivot within the circle of his arms — and he doesn't let me go. Not even an inch. His hands remain firm around my waist, like releasing me isn't even an option.
The moment my eyes meet his, something warm blooms in my chest.
"I'm so happy you're here," I breathe out, almost laughing at how shaky my voice sounds. "I was... really freaking out."
Zach's thumb strokes the side of my waist.