Not a chance in hell I’m waking her.
I pray in every language I know that Dominic doesn’t catch us… and that Nate is definitely asleep. I’m not prepared to explain why I’m carrying the coach’s daughter into the house like a romcom gone wrong.
Then comes the hard part.
Movies make this look easy—
the guy carries the girl effortlessly, the doors magically open, the universe applauds.
Reality?
A logistical nightmare.
Not because Sloane is heavy—please.
But because I’m trying to:
not drop her, close the car door, fish the keys out of my pocket without jostling her, open the front door, and pray Dominic doesn’t appear in the hallway and vaporize us both with a single look.
Half the time I’m terrified she’ll slip.
The other half I’m terrified she’ll wake up and murder me.
I manage to get inside.
Total silence.
Thank you, universe. Dominic must be asleep. Or he’s upstairs in full do-not-disturb mode.
I take the stairs slowly.
She instinctively curls closer, her arm brushing my chest, her head tucking under my chin.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t think.
I can’t.
I bring her into my room.
Drop my keys on the carpet to muffle the sound.
Kneel beside the bed to lay her down gently.
The moment her head hits the pillow, she makes a noise—
a cranky, irritated cat noise.
I freeze.
But she just rolls to the other side and goes back to sleep.
I exhale.
Once.
Maybe twice.
