Then back up.
“That shirt is obscene,” she says.
I smirk. “It’s iconic.”
Sloane steps closer, voice low. “He really made you wear it?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “And he laughed when he saw it.”
Sloane’s face cracks for half a second.
Then she leans in, quick and decisive, and kisses me.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
She kisses me like she’s furious at the world, and I’m the only place safe enough to release it.
My hand slides to her waist instinctively, anchoring her.
Sloane’s fingers curl into the front of my shirt, right over the stupid heart, and she makes a small sound against my mouth that turns my brain to static.
I pull back just enough to breathe, forehead hovering near hers.
Sloane’s eyes are dark and wide.
Her voice is a whisper. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” I agree.
She blinks. “Then why are you?—”
I kiss her again, slower this time, like a promise I’m not calling a promise.
When we finally break, Sloane’s breathing is uneven.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then away, like she’s mad at herself.
“Get in the car,” she mutters.
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
She rolls her eyes as I open her door for her.
—
The house is quiet when we get back.
The porch light is on.
Cameron’s truck isn’t in the driveway yet.
The air inside is warmer, heavy with that too-careful calm.
I step in first, keeping my movements quiet.
Sloane follows, toeing off her shoes, duffel strap still in her hand like she might run back out.
A low sound carries from the living room.
