Protect her.
Don’t make this harder.
And last night—God—last night might have been exactly that.
Harder.
I turn back toward the living room.
Then Sloane’s door opens.
She steps out quietly, barefoot now, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes flick to me.
We freeze.
Two enemies in a hallway.
Two idiots with a kiss between them.
“What?” she says, voice flat.
I lift my brows. “What?”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you lurking?”
“I’m not lurking,” I reply automatically. “I live here.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches like she wants to smile and refuses. “You sound like a squatter.”
“I’m a medically necessary squatter,” I say.
Sloane’s eyes flick to my brace. “How’s the knee?”
“Still attached,” I say.
She huffs softly, then steps closer—just a little. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo.
Close enough that my brain goes stupid.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
My pulse spikes.
I swallow hard.
“Sloane,” I murmur, without meaning to.
Her eyes lift to mine, wide for half a second.
Then she takes a breath like she’s about to do something reckless.
I lean in without thinking.
Not fast.
Not like I’m stealing.
Slow, like I’m asking.
