It’s well after midnight when Sloane and I get home, and it feels like I’m barely even into the bed before I’m asleep.
The next morning is a Sunday—technically my day off, though I usually end up working in some capacity. Sloane is already awake, coffee brewed, her laptop open, her eyes fixed to the screen as she shovels Froot Loops into her mouth. Winston sits on the opposite end of the table, staring her down as though trying to communicate his simmering judgements telepathically. I pick him up as I walk by and he growls as I plop him on the floor.
“What the fuck are you eating?” I ask as I trace a touch across her pulse as I continue my trek to the blessed coffee machine.
“Individually-dyed Cheerios, clearly. Took me all morning,” she snarks.
I grin, though she doesn’t see it. “That smart mouth is going to get put to good use as soon as I’m caffeinated.”
“Are you threatening me with a good time?”
“More like promising. And speaking of good time,” I say, pouring the rest of the coffee into the largest mug I own before starting a fresh pot, “did you see Dr. Rostis there last night?”
“Ooh, I did, yeah. Didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Maybe we should make him into next year’s game instead of enlisting Lachlan to identify a target.”
A twinge of worry wracks my body with a shiver. I still see Sloane trapped in that cellar at Harvey Mead’s house, his boot print an angry red mark on her face, blood dripping from her nostrils in the rain. The flash of lightning across her misshapen shoulder is still vivid in my mind. I dream of that moment too often. It fucking haunts me. “Or maybe instead of a competitive game this year, we can play together. We could hunt him as a team.”
Sloane snorts a derisive laugh. “Are you afraid of losing again, pretty boy?”
“I’m afraid of losing you.”
Sloane turns to me then, a scrutinous eye flowing over my face. Her gaze softens into something akin to pity. It’s probably due to the dark circles under my eyes and my haphazard hair and longer-than-usual stubble. She catalogs every detail before she sits back in her chair. “Rowan, I’ll be okay. This is what we do. What happened with Harvey was my own careless mistake.”
“Why did you make it?” I press. I already know the answer. She knows I do.
Sloane swallows. “Because I thought he was coming for you.”
I head toward the table and she opens an arm to me, wrapping my waist in her warmth and laying her head against my side when I halt next to her. “I don’t want to stop,” I say. “But there’s a lot more risk involved when we work against one another rather than together.”
“True, but it’s also so fun when I kick your ass.”
A sigh leaves my lungs, a hint of frustration in a puff of air. “Sloane, I can’t handle worrying about you right now. I don’t think I can take that stress on top of everything else. I can barely manage to keep a day-to-day, normal life with you together, let alone that.”
Sloane stiffens against me. I realize that sounded harsh when I didn’t mean it to. I’m just so fucking tired, and the constant worry about messing this new life up is manifesting exactly what I don’t want to happen: messing it the fuck up.
“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
“It’s okay,” she says, but the brightness in her tone comes off forced.
“No, I’m serious. You’re not a burden, if that’s what you think.”
“It’s okay,” she says again as she casts a brief smile up to me before she turns her attention back to her laptop. “I get it. All your hard work has been worth it, though. The initial reviews from opening night are great.”
She pulls the computer closer so I can see the reviews she’s been reading. But it takes me a moment to turn my attention to what she’s trying to show me. I don’t know whether to press her on this obvious deflection, or if doing so will make her retreat even more. In the end, I figure it’s likely I’ll just make things worse if I open my uncaffeinated mouth on the topic, so I squeeze her arm instead and read the reviews over her shoulder. They might be early and a little biased as most are from loyal regular customers, but I can tell by the detail and enthusiasm that we’re off to a good start. And as Sloane points out particular passages and comments, I know she’s proud of it too, even if my words just now delivered a sting I didn’t intend.
“What have you got planned for the morning?” I ask when we’ve read through a few reviews together.