"I can't imagine having sisters," I say. "Growing up with Easton was like having a bodyguard who doubled as a worried parent. He used to walk me to the bus stop every morning until I was in eighth grade—not because I needed protection, but because he needed to make sure I got there safely. Even now, he still texts me after every away game to make sure I made it home."
"Must've been nice, though. Having someone look out for you."
"It was. But it was also suffocating sometimes." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Your sisters sound like they saw you as a person, not a problem to solve. Easton loves mefiercely, but he's always trying to fix things for me instead of just... being there while I fix them myself."
Garrett nods slowly. "That's the difference, isn't it? My sisters trusted me to handle things. They just made sure I knew I didn't have to handle them alone."
He reaches for something on the table—a forgotten bag of vending machine pretzels I didn't even notice him bring in—and offers it to me. Our fingers brush as we both reach for one, and the contact sends a jolt of warmth up my arm. Neither of us pulls away immediately.
"Is that what you want?" he asks quietly, his thumb barely grazing my knuckles. "Someone who trusts you to handle things?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning that goes far beyond family dynamics. I look up at him—really look—and see something in his eyes that makes my breath catch. Waiting.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I think it is."
The conversation softens after that, meandering through smaller, easier topics—favorite books from the shelves of his loft, terrible movies we both secretly love, the first concerts we ever went to. The easy back-and-forth stretches, punctuated by comfortable silences, until the room feels less like a corporate meeting space and more like a private sanctuary.
The silence stretches, but it's not empty—it's full of promise, of connection, of two people finally seeing each other clearly. I can hear the soft tick of the wall clock, the distant hum of the building's ventilation system, the sound of my own heartbeat as I lose myself in his gaze.
Then something catches my eye through the window behind him, breaking the spell. I blink, focusing past his shoulder at the view outside.
"Is that... snow?" I ask, squinting at the white specks dancing under the haloed streetlights.
"Huh. Guess it is." He checks his phone. His eyes go wide. "Whoa. It's late. Past eight."
The laughter dies in my throat, replaced by a sudden, sharp chill. Eight? We've been in this room for hours. It felt like twenty minutes.
"I should... I need to get home. I live a good twenty minutes from here—"
Before I can finish, my phone buzzes violently. An alert.
EXTREME WEATHER WARNING: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS. TRAVEL NOT ADVISED.
"It's not safe to drive. I'm not letting you die on a highway," Garrett says, already standing.
The conference room suddenly feels suffocating.
"There has to be another option—"
"There is." He steps closer, his presence suddenly magnetic, dangerous.
"My place is five blocks from here. The roads are shot, but we can walk it."
My pulse thuds in my ears. "Garrett, I can't. If anyone saw us—"
"No one's seeing anything in a blizzard, Sloane." His voice lowers. "It's this, or you sleep on the couch in the marketing office. Your call. With that big scarf of yours, no one'll recognize you anyway."
My throat tightens. "This is a bad idea."
"It's the only idea left." His gaze holds mine. "Let me get you home safe."
I give a short, sharp nod before I can change my mind.
The surrender feelsmonumental—like stepping off a cliff.
A few minutes later he holds the heavy exit door, and we step into a wall of white.
The wind hits like a fist. Snow slashes across my face with needle-point intensity. Within seconds, visibility drops to near-zero.
