Chapter 14 Oliver
OLIVER
The elevator ride was silent but not uncomfortable.
She stood beside me with her arms crossed tightly, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeve.
I kept one step behind her in case she needed space.
She didn’t say anything when we exited the elevator, just led the way down the hall to her door with slow, measured steps.
I hated how her shoulders stayed rigid, like the tension hadn’t left her body since we exited the stadium.
God, my fingers made fists when I thought about what Hayes could’ve done to her.
Hours had passed, but the anger and worry remained in my skin.
Her bandages were still on, red, and images of her wide eyes and fear as she stared at her office gutted me.
I forced myself to take a breath—settling my heart rate.
Now was not the fucking time to have an episode.
Sloane paused with the keys in her hand, then glanced up at me just outside her door.
Her mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out.
She hesitated for a full second before turning and unlocking it.
When it clicked open, she kept her hand on the handle, fingers trembling slightly, like she wasn’t sure what came next.
“Do you… want to come in for a bit?”
“Try and stop me,” I said, softer than I intended. The smile she gave me wasn’t full, but it was there, and that was my goal. She stepped inside, and I followed her in.
The warmth hit first. Subtle, not only the temperature but the feeling.
Her place smelled faintly like cinnamon and lavender.
The floors were dark hardwood, the walls a clean, pale gray, and everything in sight was in its place.
There wasn’t a single item out of order—no dirty dishes, no unfolded laundry, no clutter.
It didn’t feel cold, but it didn’t feel entirely lived-in either.
Like she kept it this way out of necessity, not comfort.
To the left was the kitchen—small but spotless.
A ceramic fruit bowl sat on the counter, filled with perfectly arranged apples and bananas that looked like they hadn’t been touched.
A knife block still held its factory shine, and a single mug sat beside the sink, drying upside down on a neatly folded towel.
The living room was equally sharp. A cream-colored couch with a navy throw folded into thirds on the arm.
The TV was mounted, the remotes placed exactly parallel on the edge of the table.
Two framed photos were on the bookshelf—one of a little boy holding a football, another of what looked like her graduating class, blurry in the background but her in focus, smiling stiffly.
Everything about the place screamed control. She kept it in line. She kept it clean. But it wasn’t sterile. It was careful. Like if she kept everything right, the chaos wouldn’t find its way in.
She went straight to the kitchen without looking back.
I lingered near the doorway, scanning the space again, slower this time.
Her personality was here—but only in echoes.
A throw pillow with the Cubs logo on it.
A book of grief and trauma theory tucked between two novels.
The tiniest crack in the frame around her diploma that she hadn’t bothered to replace.
And a candle low on the windowsill, the label faded from being lit too often.
I could feel the version of her that lived here—alone, organized, and self-contained. The part of her she never showed at work. The part she hadn’t let me see until tonight.
She opened a cabinet, then another. Her hand hovered over a glass, but she didn’t take it. I didn’t think she even knew what she was looking for. Her shoulders twitched once, then settled into stillness again, like she was forcing the tension down where I couldn’t see it.
“Sloane,” I said gently, not moving from the entry. “Let me get you whatever you need. Just… go sit. Rest. You don’t have to do anything right now.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” she said, too fast. Her voice was strained, quiet but sharp. She turned halfway, still not meeting my eyes. “I don’t know what I need.”
I stepped in further, slow enough not to crowd her. “Okay. That’s fair. Then tell me what not to do. I’ll work from there.”
She gave a humorless breath, something close to a laugh. “I’m not used to people asking that.”
I nodded once. “Yeah, I figured.”
She leaned back against the counter, both hands gripping the edge like she was bracing for something.
The bandage at her elbow tugged slightly when she shifted, but she didn’t react to it.
“I keep thinking if I move or sit or take my shoes off, I’ll spiral.
I should know how to handle this. I should be better than this, but the second I still, I’m gonna freak out. I can’t… I’m barely holding on.”
I moved to the other side of the island, careful to keep the space between us steady. Not too far. Not too close. “Well, stop then. React how you need to, feel what you need to. You’re safe here.”
“I don’t want to fall apart in front of you. I can’t fall apart in front of you,” she said, her voice quiet and barely above a whisper. She closed her eyes and hung her head, the stress almost a physical aura around her. “Maybe you should go.”
“Sloane, honey,” I said, my voice gentle but firm as I stepped closer to her so our shoes touched. I tilted her chin up, waiting until she met my eyes. “I’m not fucking leaving you tonight, so don’t ask me to.”
Her eyes watered, and she swallowed so hard it clicked. “Okay.”
I didn’t move my hand. I kept my fingers resting under her chin, feeling the warmth of her skin, the tiny tremble still working its way through her throat. She looked up at me like she wasn’t sure what I saw. Like maybe if I looked too long, I’d see all the cracks.
But all I saw was her.
Her hair was half up, messier now, a few strands falling near her cheek. Her eyes were red-rimmed. And god, even now—especially now—she was stunning. The kind of beautiful that didn’t beg for attention. It just was.
“I meant what I said,” I told her, softer now. “You don’t have to hold it all together right now. Let me help. Let me stay. I’ll do whatever you need, even if it’s sitting here while you fall asleep.”
She blinked once, her expression caught somewhere between surrender and disbelief. Her hand moved slightly like she was going to reach for me, then stopped.
I didn’t wait.
I leaned in slow, pressing my forehead to hers. Her breath hitched. My hand moved from her chin to her cheek, my thumb brushing beneath her eye where the faintest tear had started to gather. “You’re safe, Sloane.”
“God, I was so scared.” Her voice cracked down the center, and her face twisted before she closed her eyes and leaned into me. Her fingers fisted in the front of my shirt. She buried her face in it, quiet but shaking, her breath hot against my chest.
I wrapped my arms around her, no hesitation.
My hand cradled the back of her head, the other curling around her shoulders as she trembled in my arms. She wasn’t sobbing—but the tremors told me more than tears ever could.
This wasn’t fear. It was the aftermath. The letting go.
And fuck, it hurt to witness, but I wasn’t going to let her do this alone.
“I kept thinking he was going to snap,” she whispered, voice muffled against my shirt. “That if I moved too fast or said the wrong thing, he’d hit me. I—I saw it coming, and I still didn’t press the button.”
“You were doing your job,” I said, rubbing her back, slow and steady. “You stayed calm because that’s who you are. That doesn’t make this your fault.”
“I froze,” she said, voice rising a little.
I pulled back enough to see her face. “You didn’t freeze. You de-escalated. You stayed calm. You got out without letting it become something worse. That’s strength, Sloane. Not failure.”
She looked at me then, like she didn’t know if she believed me yet. Her eyes were red, lashes wet. She still gripped my shirt hard, and I carefully took her fingers and helped her unclench them, intertwining our fingers instead.
“Everyone sees me as this… grounded, put-together person,” she said, quieter again. “I can’t even remember the last time I cried in front of someone.”
“I’m not just someone, Sloane, and we both know that.” I sighed, studying the bridge of her nose and the freckles there. The way her lashes fanned across her cheek and the way her lips were bowed and full, even when sad. “I’m not going to let you blame yourself or downplay how you feel right now.”
“God, who are you?” She huffed a laugh, her eyes shining as she stared up at me. “You’re twenty-six. You shouldn’t be here, being all wise and taking care of me.”
I bit back irritation. She was projecting her worries, trying to push me away. I knew that, and I refused to let her. “Why does my age matter?”
“You’re young, and most twenty-six-year-olds don’t have your maturity.” She stepped away from me, wincing as she touched the bandage on her head. “God, what am I doing? You’re a player, and I’m the—”
“Sloane,” I said firmly. “None of that tonight.” I shook my head, my muscles tensing at the thought of her spiraling in that direction, where she listed all the reasons, she shouldn’t trust me or be here with me.
I understood them, but I didn’t give a shit.
“I’ve lived through shit that made me grow up fast. I’ve always been more mature than my age, and I have what one would say is an old soul.
Yet friendship and caring about someone? Age doesn’t matter, I assure you.”
Her chin trembled. “But—”
I placed my finger over her lips, silencing her. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to shower or take a bath, whatever you want. Then, I’ll help put on your bandages, and we can watch the Cubs play the Giants. West Coast game.”
She nodded and disappeared into her room, the sound of the water turning on.