Page 69 of The Boyfriend Zone

"Maybe start with an apology," I suggested. "And then try something radical—tell him what you just told me. About being scared, about not knowing what you're doing, about caring enough that it freaks you out."

"That sounds horrifically vulnerable," Zach grimaced.

"It is," I laughed. "Welcome to actual human connection, man. It's terrifying."

"So what, I just bare my soul and hope he doesn't laugh in my face?"

"Pretty much," I nodded. "But also, maybe take a concrete step. Something to show him you're serious about changing things."

"Like what?"

"Like bridging those worlds you've been keeping so separate," I suggested. "Tristan's having people over this weekend, right? The end-of-semester thing? Invite Nate. Not as Lucas's flat mate, but as your guest."

Zach looked simultaneously intrigued and terrified by the suggestion. "You think that would help?"

"Can't hurt," I shrugged. "Worst case, he says no and you're exactly where you are now. Best case..."

"Best case, he says yes and I have to introduce him to everyone as my... what? Friend? Date?" Zach's expression was panicked.

"How about just as Nate?" I suggested. "The rest will sort itself out."

Tristan's party that weekend was exactly the kind of relaxed gathering our team needed after weeks of intense practice and games. The atmosphere was casual—music playing at a level that allowed actual conversation, various snacks scattered around the living room, people moving in and out of different groups as the evening progressed.

Lucas and Nate arrived together, scanning the room with slightly wary expressions. I waved from my spot near the fireplace, feeling a surge of happiness as Lucas's face brightened at the sight of me.

"Hey," I greeted him with a quick kiss. "Glad you made it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Lucas smiled, glancing around. "Nice turnout."

Nate, beside him, was doing his best to appear indifferent, though I noticed his eyes darting around the room as if searching for someone specific. "Great party," he said flatly. "Very athletic."

Before I could respond, Zach emerged from the kitchen carrying two drinks. He froze momentarily when he spotted Nate, then visibly gathered himself and approached.

"Hey," he said, his usual confidence notably absent. "I, um, made you this. That cocktail you mentioned liking—with the lime and the mint thing."

Nate stared at the offered drink, clearly caught off guard by the thoughtful gesture. "You remembered that? I mentioned it weeks ago."

Zach shrugged, aiming for casual but landing closer to nervous. "Yeah, well, I pay attention sometimes."

The moment stretched between them, laden with unspoken tension. Finally, Nate accepted the drink, his fingers brushing against Zach's as he did.

"Thanks," he said, his voice softer than usual. "That's really nice of you."

"No problem," Zach replied, a tentative smile forming. "Want to see the backyard? Tristan's got one of those fire pit things set up."

"Sure," Nate agreed, following Zach through the crowd.

Lucas turned to me with raised eyebrows as they disappeared. "Did you have something to do with that?"

"Maybe a small nudge," I admitted. "Nothing manipulative, just a suggestion that actions speak louder than apologies."

Throughout the evening, I kept an eye on Zach and Nate, noting with satisfaction how Zach made a visible effort to include Nate in conversations, introducing him to teammates not as "Lucas's flat mate" but as "the friend I've been telling you about."

During an increasingly competitive game of charades, they were paired together by chance. To everyone's surprise, Nate seemed to decode Zach's minimal, somewhat chaotic gestures with uncanny accuracy, correctly guessing "The Godfather" and "ice fishing" from the barest of clues.

"How did you get that?" someone demanded after Nate instantly identified "quantum physics" from Zach merely pointing to his head and making a small explosion gesture.

"We speak the same language of idiocy, apparently," Nate replied dryly, though the smile he directed at Zach was anything but sarcastic.

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