The Purrfect Wingman
Across the narrow gap between the beds, Zach lounged back on the other, balancing his coffee in one hand and unwrapping a taco with the other like we weren’t practically eating in a glorified shoebox.
It was… weirdly easy. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t expected. Maybe it was the coffee. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it was the fact that Zach didn’t hover, didn’t interrogate, didn’t make me feel like a fragile rescue case. He just sat there, eating and passing me salsa packets without a word, as if we did this every Sunday.
“So,” he said after a few bites, voice casual but curious, “small world moment—Forrest Frost called me yesterday.”
Bab Populer