“Sloane.”
My name in that voice. A whisper. Rough and reverent.
I turn. We’re inches apart. The tension between us crackles like static. His hand comes up, fingertips grazing my cheek.
“We shouldn’t—”
“I know.”
But I don’t pull away.
And that’s all he needs.
He leans in—
Thesound of a door closing echoes through the hallway.
We freeze, reality crashing back like ice water. Heavy footsteps approach, accompanied by the distinctive jingle of security keys. My blood turns to arctic slush as recognition hits—those are Easton's footsteps. I'd know my brother's stride anywhere.
I jerk away from Garrett so violently that my chair spins, breaking the spell completely. Professional panic floods my system, drowning the desire in pure survival instinct. If Easton walks in here and finds us like this...
“The penalty kill rotation,” I say loudly, my voice artificially bright as I spin back to face the monitor. “That's fascinating how they disguise their intentions.”
Garrett recovers instantly, stepping back to a professionally appropriate distance. “Right. Chicago's been running this system all season. Very effective against traditional entries.”
The footsteps pause outside the door.
My pulse is deafening.
Then... they pass.
Just a guard on his phone.
Relief crashes through me—but I’m shaking.
“I should go.” I’m already saving files. “Early meeting.”
“Sloane—”
“Thank you for the footage recommendations,” I interrupt, gathering my laptop with practiced efficiency. “This will really strengthen the presentation.”
The formality is a shield, protecting both of us from the implications of what almost happened. But as I head for the door, I catch his reflection in one of the dark monitors. He’s watching me go, his expression a raw mix of frustration and longing.
13
Garrett
The walk from the arena to my truck is a slow grind, each step heavier than the last.
I grip my keys so tight the metal bites into my palm—anything to distract from the image of Sloane’s face when she heard someone walking outside that door. The way she went rigid. The way her walls slammed back up so fast it left me dizzy.
I sit in the driver’s seat for five full minutes, engine off, just staring at the dash. The silence in here is a solid thing, thick with everything we didn’t say. Everything.
This is insane.
We’re adults. Not teenagers sneaking around, always checking for a teacher or a parent. But that’s what this is. Stealing moments in closets, texting in code, always looking over our shoulders.
The secrecy is a physical weight, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe.
