Silence.
Then she looks back, face unreadable.
“Okay,” she says simply.
No drama.
No fight.
No “don’t leave me” hanging in the air.
That makes it worse.
I cross the hall in three long steps and stop in front of her, close enough to feel her warmth.
“I’ll be back,” I promise.
Sloane’s eyes flick over my face like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
I lean down and kiss her again.
This one lingers a second longer than the first. My hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing gently like I’m imprinting myself there.
When I pull back, she exhales softly. “How long do you think you could last without doing that?”
The joke is small, but it lands like a gift.
My chest loosens.
I manage a crooked smirk. “I don’t have to…if you’re not ready.”
I mean it too. Even if it kills me.
Sloane’s gaze sharpens.
Then she grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me down.
And she kisses me.
Not careful.
Not hesitant.
Her mouth is firm, certain, like she’s tired of holding back, and she’s choosing this anyway.
When she pulls away, her forehead rests against mine, and her voice is quiet but steady.
“I’m ready,” she whispers.
I close my eyes for a second, because I can’t handle how much I love her without it breaking something inside me.
“Okay,” I murmur.
I kiss her one more time—soft, quick, like a promise I’m trying not to make too heavy—then force myself to step back.
Because if I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all.
And Carter’s diner suddenly feels like the place my entire future is waiting to ambush me.
