“And now you’re out here, freezing your ass off, because you’re scared for your parents. Because you think you have to save them, too. You pile extra work on yourself so your mom can be around your dad when he’s home, you try not to worry them, you pretend everything’s fine…”
I pause, my voice dropping even lower.
“You even took on a pain-in-the-ass idiot like me because your dad asked you to. And what about you, Sloane?”
“Stop it,” she cuts in, shaking her head hard. She huddles deeper into my jacket like she wants to disappear inside it. “I’m happy when my friends are happy. They’re meant to be together. It’s their path. And my family… it’s complicated, Cohen. So no, I don’t mind taking on more work. I’d do it anyway. That’s who I am.”
She sniffles.
“I’m the fixer. I’m the one who makes things work. I’m the one who makes love happen for everyone else.”
“No.”
The word bursts out of me, almost angry.
On instinct, I cup her face in my hands. My thumbs press gently to her chilled cheekbones, my fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck. I force her to look at me. To really see me.
“That’s where you’re wrong. What you do doesn’t define who you are. You’re not just your job.”
I feel her breath catch. Her blue eyes are wide, locked on mine like I’ve started speaking an alien language. Nobody talks to her like this.
But I do.
I’m the one who always pushes her.
“You’re an incredible friend, and they adore you—not because you’re useful, or because you find them their soulmates, but because you’reyou,” I say. “You’re fucking hilarious. You’re a hurricane, Sloane. You’re infuriating…”
My mouth quirks in a crooked, honest half-smile.
“…in the best possible way. You’re beautiful. You’re brilliant and stupidly smart.”
I lean in closer. My heart is hammering against my ribs like I just played a full ninety minutes.
Do I really think all this about her?
Yeah. I do. Fuck.
“It’s an honor to have you next to me,” I say quietly. “You’re not just a matchmaker. You’re not just a CEO. You’re not just Julian Heart’s daughter. Or Katherine Heart’s. You’re Sloane, for fuck’s sake. So no—you’re not your job. You’re wonderfully, ridiculously yourself. And that is… that’s more than enough.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
There’s no sarcasm in her gaze. No usual challenge. Just disbelief.
She looks at me like she can’t quite process that these words are coming out of my mouth. The “worst client,” the guy who pushes all her buttons.
Cohen Becker. There’s really no other way to define me.
And I see, with a clarity that hurts, just how badly she needed to hear it. Not because she’s unloved—she isn’t. Her people would kill for her. But sometimes the people closest to us forget we still need the obvious said out loud.
IknowSloane is loved. I know her friends and family would walk through fire for her.
But I don’t think anyone’s ever spelled it out like this.
Her lips tremble. A tear slips free, following the curve of my thumb along her cheek.
“Cohen?” she whispers, her voice barely there.
“Yeah?”
