"Yeah."
"How'd that work out?"
The question landed like a fist. Not cruel, just honest. The kind of honesty that only comes from someone who's earned the right.
"So don't do that again." He leaned forward. "Whatever she's running from, show up. Not to fix it. Just to be there."
Sloane was at the bar last week. Head tipped back, laughing at one of the probie's terrible jokes. The way she'd caught me watching and held my gaze for one unguarded second before looking away.
And now the silence again.
Eight years ago, I'd let the silence win.
"You're right," I said.
Shane nodded. Once. Like that was the only answer he'd have accepted.
"Good." He clapped my shoulder on his way out.
Fourteen hours left on the clock. Fourteen hours of checking equipment, running drills, and pretending I could focus on anything other than the silence from her end of my phone.
Then I was showing up at her door.
I finished my shift on autopilot.
Eight years ago, I'd given Sloane space because she asked for it. Because I loved her and I thought that's what love meant, stepping back, trusting she'd come back when she was ready.
She hadn't come back.
The space became a chasm. Three years of silence. Three years of unanswered letters. Three years of slowly accepting that the woman I loved had disappeared, and I'd let it happen.
Not this time.
Clocked out at seven. Truck by seven-ten.
Traffic crawled across the bridge. Brake lights stretching into the distance. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.
Are you okay? What happened? Talk to me.
Simple. Direct. Just be there.
But underneath the calm words, fear churned. What if she didn't want to talk? What if she'd already decided this was a mistake? All of it?
I'd survived losing her once. I wasn't sure I could do it again.
The hallway held that muffled stillness of old buildings. I raised my hand. Knocked.
The sound echoed.
Silence.
Again. Harder.
"Sloane."
Nothing.
"I know you're in there."
