Page 7 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“That doesn’t sound like hesitation.”

“It’s not, exactly.” I watch one of the analysts move away from a desk, and then there’s Sloane, bent over a monitor with one hand braced beside the keyboard, his broad shoulders filling out his black work shirt. His hair is a mess from his own fingers, and his mouth is set in the focused line he gets when he’s hunting a pattern through data. My chest goes soft so fast it almost hurts. “I’m excited. I really am. I want this to work. I don’t want to be the reason it doesn’t.”

“So the Halston job feels badly timed.”

“The commute alone would be killer. Some days I’d probably have to stay near campus, especially if I had late classes or office hours. If Theo moves in and he’s trying to settle, if the pack is changing, if everyone needs to learn each other…” I swallow asSloane lifts his head, almost like he feels me watching. “I don’t want to be halfway across the state while my life is happening without me.”

Mara is quiet long enough for the answer to settle between us. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said about it,” she says at last.

I laugh, and Sloane’s head snaps toward the sound. The change in his face is immediate. His frown vanishes, his eyes warm, and then he’s moving toward the security gate with the same single-minded purpose he brings to everything he loves.

“I have to go,” I say, already smiling despite myself.

“Go feed your men. But don’t bury the offer just because wanting something for yourself feels inconvenient.”

“I’m not burying it. Call me later.”

“I will.”

“And tell the climbable one I said hello.”

“Mara.”

“Respectfully.”

I’m still laughing when Sloane reaches the gate, prowling toward me, his eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the building worth noticing. He uses his badge to override the gate before I can sign in, the glass panel hissing open, and then his hands are on me before he even looks at the bag.

“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into the low, rough register that always makes my knees feel unreliable. “Tell me that’s the chicken from Fourth.”

“It’s the chicken from Fourth.”

He closes his eyes for one dramatic second. “I knew I bonded you for a reason.”

“You bonded me because you’re obsessed with me.”

“That too.” He reaches for the bag, but his other hand finds my waist first, pulling me into him until my coat brushes his shirt and the familiar heat of him wraps around me. “Mostly that.”

The lobby is too bright and too public, but I let myself lean into him anyway. Coffee clings to his shirt when he pulls me closer, and his mouth brushes my temple before he finally looks at the dinner bag.

“People can see us,” I say, though I don’t move away.

“Good. Let them know I’m adored.”

“You’re fed. There’s a difference.”

“Not to me.” He kisses me quickly, hard enough to leave heat in my cheeks, then finally takes the bag from my shoulder. “Idris is in the break room pretending server logs are more important than his blood sugar. You’re saving lives, baby.”

“I know. I’m very noble.”

He keeps one arm draped over my shoulders as we walk toward the back, his thumb hooking into the strap of my tote like he doesn’t trust it not to slide again. The office is quieter than it would be during the day, most desks empty, the remaining analysts murmuring into headsets or staring at screens with the focused exhaustion of people chasing something that refuses to be found. Sloane belongs here in a way that makes my heart squeeze. He's easy at home, loud and touchy and shameless, but here there’s a different edge to him. He moves like someone who knows every exit, every camera angle, every risk in the room.

I like seeing him like this.

I like seeing the part of him that exists before me and still makes room for me without question.

The break room is warmer than the lobby, filled with the hum of a vending machine and the faint smell of burnt coffee. Idris is at the far table with his tablet propped against a napkin dispenser, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his dark brows drawn together in concentration. He looks severe and beautiful and slightly murderous, which means he absolutely hasn’t eaten.

He lifts his head when we enter, his expression shifting just enough to make my stomach flutter. Idris doesn’t brighten theway Sloane does. He softens by degrees, a lowering of his shoulders, a brief release around his eyes, a quiet recalibration of the room now that I’m in it.