In her place is a girl who looks like she believes every horrible word that asshole ever said to her.
“Sloane, breathe,” I say gently.
Instead of breathing, she collapses.
Her knees buckle and I catch her before she can hit the ground—pulling her against my chest, wrapping her up completely, burying my face in her hair.
“I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
She clutches the back of my shirt, fingers fisting the fabric.
She’s not crying.
She just shakes.
And that’s somehow worse.
We stay like that for what feels like forever—me holding her, her trying to find her center again.
Jealousy twists low in my gut.
Why does hurt this much?
Why do his words still have this kind of power?
A dark thought slithers in:
Because she still cares.
Maybe she hasn’t let him go.
Maybe everything between us—the chemistry, the laughter, the insane sex—is just noise compared to what she once felt for him.
The idea that I might just be a distraction—a Band-Aid slapped onto a wound still bleeding for someone else—makes it hard to breathe.
But then she sighs against my neck, small and fragile, and I shove my insecurity down.
Not now.
Right now she needs me.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I whisper against her temple. “And don’t tell me you’re fine.”
She pulls back just enough to breathe, but not enough to leave my arms.
“I feel—”
Her voice cracks. She swallows hard and tries again.
“I feel stupid. I let him get in my head. Again.”
“What did he say, Sloane? Besides the bullshit about cooking?”
She looks down at my chest.
“He always made me feel… inadequate, Cohen. Always. No matter what I did, it was never enough. I wasn’t sweet enough. I wasn’t domestic enough. I was too focused on work, too loud, too… me.”
She looks up, and there’s a fear in her eyes that cuts me clean open.
