I force the feeling down with a shaky breath. I can’t fall apart now.
Not when she’s here.
Not when I need to take care of her.
I look up.
Sloane is standing exactly where her father left her.
Alone. In the snow. Bathed in pale afternoon light.
She’s folded in on herself, hands pressed to her mouth, shoulders shaking.
She’s crying.
And she’s crying in a way that rips something vital straight out of my chest.
A sharp, physical pain stabs beneath my sternum. Seeing her like this—broken, fragile—hurts worse than any injury I’ve ever taken.
And I know she’s crying because of me.
Because of us.
Because she thinks she’s lost me.
I stop thinking.
I don’t think about jealousy. About Joe. About my wounded pride.
I move.
I cross the distance between us in long strides, snow crunching under my boots.
“Sloane.”
She jerks her head up. Her face is streaked with tears, eyes red, nose running. She’s a mess.
And she’s the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.
“Cohen…” she sobs, taking a step back like she’s afraid I’ve come to say goodbye. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
I don’t let her finish.
I reach her and pull her into me.
No words.
No joke.
No deflection.
That’s usually my armor—being an idiot, laughing things off.
Not this time.
This time, the armor is on the ground.
I hold her, wrapping my arms around her—one hand pressing the back of her head to my chest, the other tight around her waist.
