“Becauseyou’restill here.”
I drop my forehead against the car door frame and inhale.
“Angel, give me the keys. I’ll walk you inside and then I’ll leave.”
I bite the inside of my cheek—halfway between wanting to laugh in her face and wanting to bite her shoulder.
“Okay,” I say calmly. “Then I’m asking one last time: give me the keys and go to bed… or come with me until this mood passes.”
“I… don’t… want… to go inside while YOU are here.”
Drunk Sloane is… hilarious.
I circle back to the driver’s side, start the car again.
She huffs, pulls her knees up onto the seat, and mutters for a solid two minutes straight.
Then, mid-insult, her eyes flutter closed.
And she falls asleep.
Just like that—without permission, without defenses, without that iron shield she always carries around.
Her head slips gently onto my shoulder.
I freeze.
I don’t move her.
I don’t even breathe, afraid I’ll wake her. Or worse—because I’ll inhale her scent.
But I smell it anyway, damn it.
That mix of vanilla, clean hair, and something celestial that’s been haunting me for months.
We pull up in front of Dominic’s house.
Yes, I’m fully aware of the “rules” Dom laid down for me: no noise, no people over, blah blah blah.
But it was either this or leaving her passed out on her own porch—
and I wouldn’t do that even under torture.
I park quietly.
She doesn’t move.
For a second, I consider waking her.
Then I look at her.
Flushed cheeks.
Slightly parted lips.
Face soft—no armor, no spikes, no fight.
No.
