A real laugh escapes me—the kind that starts in my gut and feels like a release. She's laughing too, her eyes bright in the dim bar light. She leans closer to be heard over the crowd, her knee brushing mine under the table.
My breath hitches.
"He was the worst," she continues, gesticulating as she speaks, and the back of her hand brushes against my knuckles on the table. The contact is a spark on a dry fuse. She stops talking. Her gaze drops to where our hands are almost touching, then flits back to my eyes. The air crackles.
Neither of us moves away.
By the time we leave, the air outside is a slap. Cold and raw under the orange wash of streetlights.
We stop by her car. Frost clings to the windshield, breath visible in puffs between us.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For telling me. About the article. About... everything.”
“I don’t hate media,” I say, the confession surprising me as much as her. “I just don’t trust it.”
She looks up, and the city noise, the cold, everything just… stops. Her eyes are bright under the streetlight, her cheeks flushed with a color that has nothing to do with the wind. The carefully constructed professional wall she wears like armor doesn't just waver; it evaporates into the steam of our shared breath.
Every instinct for self-preservation I’ve honed over the last decade screams at me:Step back. Say goodnight. Walk away.This is the line. Crossing it means trusting someone again, and I know how that story ends.
But then she just looks at me, and I realize I don't give a damn about the smart thing anymore.
I take a half-step closer, the crunch of frost under my boot the only sound in the sudden quiet.
“This is a terrible idea,” I murmur, the words a final, flimsy defense against what’s already happening. My hand lifts, hesitant for a fraction of a second before I commit, my fingers brushing the rough wool of her coat before finding the impossible softness of her cheek. Her skin is warm despite the cold, a small, shocking miracle.
Her breath catches, a tiny, audible gasp in the frozen air. “Terrible.”
But she doesn’t pull away. She leans into my touch, just slightly, and that’s it. My last thread of control snaps.
Just as I lean in, a phone rings—sharp and jarring in the frozen air. We spring apart like we've been electrocuted, the spell shattering instantly. Sloane fumbles in her coat pocket, her eyes wide with panic as she glances at the screen. "It's Easton," she whispers, before swiping to answer and putting the phone to her ear.
I can hear his voice clearly in the cold air, suspicious and sharp. “I thought I was giving you a ride home but then I saw your text. You're at The Penalty Box? Who are you with?”
She glances at me, panic flickering across her face. “Just... finishing up some work stuff.”
“Sloane, seriously. I heard you're doing media training with Sullivan tonight.” Easton's tone gets harder, more urgent. “You remember what happened with Sarah.”
I watch the color drain from her face, watch her whole body go rigid. She gives a jerky nod into the phone, then turns and walks away without another glance at me, her professional mask slammed back into place.
The name—Sarah—and the sheer terror on Sloane's face are a combination I don't understand.
But I know a warning shot when I hear one.
6
Sloane
The silence in my apartment is starting to getloud.
After a full day of dodging Garrett like it’s my second job, I still haven’t figured out what I’d even say if I saw him. Last night left a mark I’m not ready to look at too closely. I just need to flush the tension from my system, clear the static from my brain.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Puck Bunny Podcast: New Episode!
Perfect.
I grab my coffee, collapse onto the couch, and hit play.
