I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t even want to think it all the way through.
The thought slides in anyway, dark and slimy.
What if she regrets having sex with me? What if that night—and every time after—were just mistakes, fueled by alcohol or anger? What if she only ever came to me because she was sad or vulnerable, and now that she’s clear-headed, I disgust her?
I don’t know if I hate myself more for thinking it or for being the one who kept pushing this whole mess.
She huffs out a breath. A little cloud of steam leaves her lips.
Her arrogant expression clicks back into place like a steel shield.
“I already told you, Becker. You’re not that important.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
Right.
What was I thinking? Of course I’m not that important. I never am. I’m the bad boy, the mistake, the distraction. Not the guy you cry over.
She could’ve slapped me. It would’ve hurt less.
I take a step back. Survival instinct screams at me to walk away, get back inside, grab another glass of wine and pretend not to care. She clearly doesn’t want me here.
But…
I look at her.
She’s shivering a little under her coat. She’s upset about something.
And for some fucked-up reason, my body simply refuses to walk away and let Sloane Heart fall apart on her own. My legs won’t carry me back to the door.
I don’t want to see her hurting. Period.
It hurts in places I didn’t even know I had working organs.
I sigh, long and low, the sound melting into the cold air.
Then I sit beside her on the bench.
Not too close, so she doesn’t feel cornered.
Not too far, so I don’t look detached.
I shove my hair back, suddenly nervous. She watches me warily, clearly expecting some sarcastic joke or for me to bail.
Instead, I make a wordless offer.
I lift one arm, open at my side—an invitation.
No pressure. No speech. Just:I’m here.
I hold my breath.
The relief that hits when she takes it is... terrifying.
She shifts closer. Hesitates for a second—then quietly slides under my arm.
She rests her head against my chest.
