I’m leaning against the counter, pretending I’m not watching her, when she opens the fridge and stares inside like she’s negotiating with it.
“You gonna keep bullying the groceries?” I ask. “Because I’m pretty sure the eggs are filing a restraining order.”
She pauses.
I see the moment her brain registers the joke. The split-second pause where it could go either way—nothing or a crack.
Then her mouth twitches.
Not a full smile.
But it’s close enough that my chest tightens like someone put their fist around my heart.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “You’re not funny.”
“That’s not what your face just said.”
“My face is grieving.”
“Your face is weak,” I counter automatically, because banter is a life raft, and I’m not above clinging.
Sloane rolls her eyes like she’s annoyed with me, but the twitch is still there, lingering at the corner of her mouth.
And something in me goes frighteningly still.
Because that tiny almost-smile hits harder than any highlight reel I’ve ever watched of myself. Harder than the thought of Chicago. Harder than the fear of Cameron. Harder than the ache that lives in this house now.
It’s just…her.
Alive.
Here.
Still capable of reacting to me.
My throat tightens. I look away first, because if I don’t, I might do something I can’t undo.
Except—
I can’t not.
My feet move before my brain catches up.
I close the distance in two steps, hands bracing on the counter on either side of her like I’m steadying myself more than I’m cornering her.
Sloane looks up, startled, milk carton halfway out of the fridge.
“Logan—”
I don’t give myself time to think.
I lean down and kiss her.
Not desperate. Not consuming. Just—sure. Warm. A simple press of my mouth to hers, like my body is saying what my mind can’t quite survive saying out loud.
She freezes for half a beat.
Then her lips part softly, and she kisses me back—slow, careful, like she’s remembering we’re allowed.
