"These are dangerous," I say, closing my eyes as the flavors hit my tongue.
"Good dangerous or bad dangerous?"
I open my eyes to find him watching me with quiet intensity. "The kind that makes me want to stay in this kitchen forever."
The words slip out before I can stop them, more honest than I intended. His hand stills on his coffee mug, and for a moment, the air between us shimmers with possibility and fear in equal measure.
"Sloane..." he starts, then stops, seeming to weigh his words carefully.
I know what he's thinking because I'm thinking it too. Last night changed everything. We can't go back to careful professional distance, to stolen moments and hidden glances. But moving forward means risking everything we've both worked so hard to build.
"One step at a time," I say softly, reaching across the counter to cover his hand with mine. "We don't have to figure it all out this morning."
He turns his palm up, interlacing our fingers. "One step at a time," he agrees.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, holding the world at bay just a little longer. And for now, that's enough.
16
Sloane
The familiar warmth of Marcello’s should feel like coming home, but tonight, the checkered tablecloths and Dean Martin crooning from hidden speakers feel like stage dressing for a performance I’m not sure I can pull off.
I slide into our usual corner booth, my phone already buzzing in my hand.
Garrett
Miss you already. How's dinner going?
The smile hits before I can stop it—soft, involuntary, the kind that reshapes your whole face. I catch myself and quickly flip the phone face down on the table. But the warmth lingers in my chest like a secret I’m carrying under my ribs.
Three days.
Three days since the blizzard. Since his apartment. Since everything changed.
Three days of stolen glances across the arena, of professional conversations laced with something else entirely, of text messages that make me feel like I’m seventeen again and reckless with longing.
Three days of walking around with this new, buzzing energy under my skin—like I’ve swallowed sunlight and it doesn’t want to stay still.
“You’re glowing.”
I look up. Easton’s watching me with those sharp green eyes that miss nothing. He’s already claimed the breadstick basket—some things never change—but his usual grin is gone. Replaced by something quieter. Sharper.
“What?” I laugh, but it comes out too bright. Too quick. “I’m not glowing. It’s the lighting.”
“Uh-huh.” He tears into a breadstick with exaggerated slowness, eyes never leaving mine. “You look different.”
My phone buzzes again. Another flutter. Another glance I catch before I can stop myself.
Easton catches it anyway.
“Popular tonight,” he says, mild.
“Just work stuff.” The lie tastes sharp. Unfamiliar. Wrong.
I’ve never lied to Easton about anything important. Not when Dad left. Not when I got my first job. Not when I moved to Minneapolis. We’ve always been each other’s safe harbor.
Until now.
