I just don’t look at the line I’m standing next to, but afraid to cross.
Not yet.
Chapter eighteen
Colby
It starts easy.
That’s the problem.
Everything is… good.
Not dramatic-good. Not fireworks-good. Just the kind of good that settles into your bones without asking permission.
Sloane texts me in the mornings now.
Not every morning. Not in a way that feels scheduled or forced.
But often enough that I notice when my phone lights up before I’m even fully awake.
Sloane:You up?
Sometimes it’s that.
Sometimes it’s a picture of her coffee with a caption likethis is offensive.
Sometimes it’s nothing more than a single line sent mid-afternoon.
Sloane:Survived meetings. Barely.
And I’ll respond.
Not immediately. Not like I’m waiting with my phone in my hand.
But I respond.
Because I want to.
We’ve fallen into something quiet and steady over the past couple of weeks, the kind of thing you don’t announce out loud because you don’t want to scare it.
A couple dinners after games.
One late-night walk through downtown after she got off work and I couldn’t sleep.
A lot of talking in my car with the engine off because neither of us wanted to be the one to sayokay, go home now. And sometimes… we don’t. Sometimes the night keeps going until it’s just us and the quiet afterward, leaving you wrecked in the best way and reluctant to face the morning.
Nothing official.
Nothing labeled.
But we don’t exactly hide it either.
We let the public think what it wants. Optics, she calls it. Easier than correcting strangers who spot us together, easier than explaining something we haven’t defined ourselves.
Every so often someone asks for a selfie. Someone snaps a picture. No harm meant. Just moments that live online longer than they should.
And still, something real enough that my teammates have noticed.
