She doesn't mention Candace. I don't bring up Donovan.
When her break ends, she squeezes my hand. "Thanks for coming by."
"Any excuse to look at you."
Her cheeks color. She rolls her eyes, but doesn't let go until the last possible second.
I head back to the clubhouse and spend the rest of the afternoon buried in the Chuck files with Malachi, cross-referencing Donovan's financials with every property record in the county. By six, my eyes are shot and my neck is stiff, but we've got three new leads and a clearer picture of the money flow. I leave the war room, text Sloane that I'm on my way, and ride to the hospital.
She's waiting in the lot, changed out of her scrubs into jeans and a soft sweater, hair down. She climbs on behind me, arms circling my waist, cheek pressed between my shoulders. I feel every microshift in her grip, every tightening when we hit a bump.
Maggie's house smells of garlic, rosemary, and chocolate when we walk up the steps. Maggie opens the door before I can knock. "There you are," she says, hauling Sloane into a hug first. "You're too skinny, and he's too grumpy. Come in, both of you."
"I am not too skinny," Sloane protests weakly.
"You are in my kitchen, which makes you too skinny. Come help me with the rolls."
She tugs Sloane toward the kitchen without giving her a chance to argue.
James appears behind her, grinning. "Told you," he murmurs. "Queen's command performance."
"Yeah," I say, watching Sloane disappear into the warmth and light. "Looks that way."
We eat at their big old table, wood scarred and worn from decades of elbows, spilled beer, and kids banging toys. Sloane takes a tentative bite of Maggie's roast chicken and makes a face, fighting how much she enjoys it.
Maggie catches it and smirks. "Thought so."
"It's really good," Sloane admits. "My arteries are filing a complaint, but they'll get over it."
"That's the spirit. One night of butter never killed anyone."
James and Maggie tell stories. They share the time James missed an anniversary because he was halfway to New Orleanson a bad tip, the fight they had when Maggie put a dent in James' first bike, the night she threw a plate at his head and he ducked so it broke the only nice vase they owned.
"You threw a plate?" Sloane asks, wide-eyed.
"He deserved worse," Maggie says serenely. "Started that fight thinking he was right and stayed in it long past wise. Sound familiar?" Her gaze cuts between us, sharp and knowing.
Sloane flushes, stabbing a potato. "Maybe."
James chuckles, topping up Sloane's wine. "We've had our share, kiddo. Doors slammed. Nights slept back-to-back. Times I thought she was going to walk, and times she thought I was too stubborn to bend."
"But you stayed," Sloane says quietly.
"We chose to," Maggie corrects gently. "Over and over."
Sloane's eyes land on me. She looks away quickly, fingers curling tighter around her fork. I recognize that expression. The one she gets when she's comparing herself to something and coming up short in her head.
She thinks I won't choose her once I know. She's wrong. But I can't prove it until she lets me in.
"It's a choice you make on days you don't feel like it," Maggie continues, passing the bread. "And if you're lucky, the feeling comes back around and knocks you flat again."
James reaches over, pats the back of her hand with his big paw, and she shoots him a look that's half exasperation, half pure adoration.
Sloane goes still. Her eyes soften, then flicker away. I watch her pull back into herself. Shoulders first, then her eyes. Across the table, James and Maggie lean into each other without thinking. Thirty years of muscle memory. Sloane sees it too. I catch her watching them with that unreadable expression she wears when something hurts and she won't say why.
We move to the living room after dinner. Maggie insists on sending us home with leftovers. James insists Sloane sits in his recliner by saying, "You worked twelve hours, then survived my wife's cooking. You've earned the good chair."
At one point, Maggie pulls Sloane into the kitchen under the guise of dessert. James excuses himself to the bathroom, and I get up to grab another beer. But I stop in the hallway when I hear their voices through the kitchen doorway. Maggie's low and steady, Sloane's thin and careful. I know I should keep walking. I don't.
