My cheek aches.
My chest aches more.
Because I meant it.
I’m here.
And for the first time in my life, being here isn’t just a place I ended up.
It’s a choice.
The coffee drips steadily into the pot, and I breathe with it.
In. Out. Slow.
Because that’s what this is now.
Not sprinting. Not running away.
Just…showing up.
When Sloane pads into the kitchen a half hour later, hair damp, face clean, I look up, and something in my chest goes soft and fierce all at once.
She stops when she sees the coffee already made.
Her eyes flick to me, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
“What a gentleman,” she says.
I smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”
Sloane walks closer, reaches up, my shirt rising up her thigh, sadly only to show me a pair of shorts underneath, and runs her thumb gently along the edge of my bruise.
She leans in and kisses me, and I’m the one melting into her as her arms wrap around my neck. If Cameron wasn’t in the house, I’d pick her up and set her on the counter, then I’d?—
She pulls back, eyes bright and swarming with heat, telling me I wasn’t the only one with their mind going straight toward the gutter.
Not entirely, anyway.
“Okay,” she says, straightening. “Grocery store.”
I nod, grabbing two mugs. “Grocery store.”
And when she takes one from my hand, her fingers brush mine on purpose.
Not hiding.
Not pretending.
Just…us.
For today, that’s enough.
47
SLOANE
Nine days since the funeral, and the world has learned how to keep going without my permission.
