Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sloane
The house feels too big when it’s quiet.
It’s not even that big, really, but without Roman’s running commentary or Ezra’s low music drifting through the walls, it’s as if someone hit mute on the world.
It’s just me and Creed tonight.
That shouldn’t be weird, but it is. I’ve spent most of my days here tiptoeing around him like he’s some wild animal. Beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to read. Now, the others are gone, and it’s just us and the hum of the fridge.
He’s sitting at the table, phone in hand, scrolling through something that probably isn’t social media. Creed doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who doomscrolls. He’s more the “brooding in silence until someone breaks first” type.
I’m at the stove, stirring something I can’t quite call dinner. Chicken and vegetables in a skillet, maybe? It started as a plan. It’s now an improvisation.
A little garlic, olive oil, and some lemon squeezed over the top. Simple. Clean. The kind of thing Creed might actually eat without giving me that look he gives bread, like it’s a personal attack.
“You don’t have to cook, you know,” he says without looking up. “I can always take care of myself. I told you that. With the guys out…”
I glance over my shoulder. “I’m hungry, and I’m not dying from a Cheetos overdose.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close enough to make my chest warm. “Fair point.”
I turn back to the pan, trying to look casual even though the quiet between us is heavy enough to feel intentional.
A few minutes pass before he speaks again. “You’re not used to it being this quiet, are you?”
I glance over. “What gave it away?”
He shrugs. “You look uncomfortable.”
“I’m a talker,” I say, though that’s not really true. I’m a deflector, a noise maker. Silence makes me overthink. “I think when…” I bite my bottom lip. “When I lost my parents, everyone was too quiet. So, I needed to fill every silence with noise.”
He leans back in his chair, arms folded, watching me. “It’s not a bad thing. Some people… need noise. It keeps them from getting lost. And I get what that’s like, in a way.”
The way he says it makes me pause, spoon hovering mid-stir. There’s something in his tone. A weight I haven’t heard before.
I turn the heat down and face him. “And you don’t like the noise yourself?”
Creed shakes his head slowly. “I grew up with too much noise. It just wasn’t the good kind.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. But then, maybe because the room is dim and soft and we’re both a little tired, he keeps going.
“My dad, Thomas, didn’t talk much. When he did, it was mostly to tell me what I’d done wrong.
” His gaze drops to the table, his thumb running over a faint scratch in the wood.
“He’s one of those men who thinks feelings are a design flaw.
Said real men don’t complain, don’t cry, and don’t show weakness. ”
I lean against the counter, the spoon forgotten. He’s never talked in this way before. Not once.
“He used to work all the time,” Creed continues.
“Even when he was home, he wasn’t there.
Mom tried to smooth things over, but it was living with a ghost that barked orders.
I learned early that the best way to stay out of trouble was to keep my head down and my mouth shut.
” He lets out a quiet laugh, one that doesn’t sound amused.
“Guess I never really grew out of that.”
For a moment, I don’t know what to say. I’ve heard a hundred stories like his in my work, people hiding behind silence, anger, control, but hearing it from him feels different. More fragile somehow.
“That sounds…” I start, then stop, because sad feels too simple. “Lonely.”
He looks up then, blue eyes catching mine. “Yeah. It was.”
The words hang there, honest and unguarded.
I move back to the stove, mainly to keep from staring at him too long. The vegetables are overcooked, and I pretend to care, but really, I’m just trying to steady the strange ache in my chest.
“You ever talk to him now?” I ask carefully.
Creed exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “No. We haven’t spoken in years. Not since before the band took off. He called once after our first tour, wanted to tell me he saw a photo of me online and that my tattoos made me look ‘cheap.’”
I wince. “Wow. That’s… something.”
“Yeah.” He says it flatly, but there’s a faint tremor in it. “After that, I figured silence was better than pretending we had anything left to say.”
The kitchen hums with quiet again.
I slide a bowl in front of him and sit across the table. “Well, I can’t promise this is good, but at least it’s edible.”
He glances down at the food, then back at me. “You sell yourself short.”
“I’m a journalist,” I say with a shrug. “We have to manage expectations.”
That earns me a genuine smile.
For a long moment, we eat in silence. But it’s not the kind that presses.
And for the first time since coming here, I finally understand something about Creed Hunter. He isn’t just quiet. He’s careful. Careful with words, with people, with the parts of himself he’s learned not to show.
I don’t know what that means yet. But as he looks up from his bowl, I think maybe the silence doesn’t need filling after all.
Something in my chest pulls tight. I set down the spoon and rest a hand on the counter between us.
“Is that why you eat in such a restrictive way? Is it a control thing?”
He gives a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s easier that way. People can’t disappoint you if you don’t let them in.”
I nod slowly. “Guess I get that.”
He tilts his head. “Yeah? You seem like someone who keeps the world at arm’s length, too.”
The words hit too close.
“Maybe I do,” I say softly. “Old habits.”
Creed stands, moving closer in that careful way of his. Testing everything between us.
“You don’t have to do that here,” he says quietly. “Keep people out.”
I turn toward him, and everything shifts. He’s closer than I thought, the kitchen light catching the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curl of his hair. There’s something open but unsure in his eyes.
“I don’t think you do either,” I whisper.
His hand finds the edge of the table beside mine. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, slowly, he reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my skin, and I swear the world narrows to that single point of contact.
The smell of lemon and garlic hangs above us.
My heart is too loud.
“Creed,” I start, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
He leans in before I can finish. Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t.
He kisses me hard.
Not soft, not sweet. Intense, passionate. Every wall between us is cracking under the strain of finally letting go.
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. All I can register is him. The heat of his palm against my jaw. The faint scrape of stubble. The taste of something real after weeks of silence and tension and everything we didn’t say.
My resolve weakens, and I find myself leaning into his touch. His thumb brushes my cheek, and I close my eyes, savoring the contact.
I should stop this. I know I should.
But the longing in his eyes, the way his touch ignites something deep inside me, something I thought I’d buried, makes it impossible.
He whispers my name as if it’s a confession, and it undoes me.
When he draws me closer, every breath feels heavier, charged. His fingers trace the curve of my jaw, down my neck, until I’m trembling, not from fear, but from everything unsaid between us.
The space between us disappears.
His mouth finds mine again, and the kiss deepens. Hungry, aching, desperate. My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the powerful thrum of his heartbeat under my palms, grounding me even as the world tilts.
I keep my eyes firmly fixed on him as I do what I might have wanted to ever since I first laid eyes on him.
I drop to my knees.