22. Sloane #2
His gaze lifts, and the room changes. Quietly and without the dramatic snap we’ve had too many times before. No confrontation, or public pressure, and nothing sharp enough to disguise the fear. Just a small space between us getting smaller because I choose to close it.
I step closer.
Marcus watches me do it, tension moving through him in a way he doesn’t try to hide. He still doesn’t reach for me first, and that almost undoes me.
“You’re being very careful,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Is it difficult?”
“Yes.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Marcus’s mouth curves faintly, but his eyes stay serious. “I’m trying not to assume proximity means permission.”
For a moment, I can only look at him. This is what growth looks like on him, I realize. Not grand gestures. Not perfect speeches. Not a sudden personality transplant that turns him into someone less controlled overnight.
This.
A man who still wants to reach and doesn’t. Because my choice matters more than his instinct. So I make the choice impossible to miss. I lift my free hand to his chest, feeling the steady force of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
“I came here,” I remind him.
His breathing changes.
“I know.”
“No, Marcus.” I hold his gaze. “I came here.”
Understanding slowly gives way to relief, and the change in him is impossible to miss. It softens something behind his eyes so completely that for a second, I almost have to look away.
“I didn’t want to be the one who pushed,” he says.
“You didn’t.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know.”
His eyes darken, and the air between us warms, but differently than before.
Less frantic. Less like a line snapping because both of us are exhausted from holding it.
This feels slower. More deliberate. Dangerous in a completely different way because this time it isn’t about losing control or reaching for each other out of frustration and emotional overload.
This is a choice.
Marcus’s hand lifts carefully toward my waist before stopping just short of contact, the hesitation reading like a question he refuses to ask out loud.
I answer by stepping into him, and his palm settles against me then, warm and steady, and my entire body reacts as if it has been waiting all day to remember this exact pressure.
I close my eyes briefly, not to escape the moment but to absorb it.
When I open them, Marcus is watching me like he has never been less interested in managing anything in his life.
“Is this why you came here?” he asks quietly.
“No.”
His hand stills.
“Not only.”
The faintest breath leaves him. “Good.”
That almost makes me laugh. Instead, I lean up and kiss him, softly at first. Because I can, and because no cameras are watching, no board is waiting, and no manufactured timeline is forcing our bodies into a performance neither of us understands yet.
Because this time I'm not acting out of anger, proving a point, or trying to survive the pressure around us. This time, I'm choosing.
Marcus kisses me back with a restraint that trembles at the edges, his hand tightening at my waist while the other comes up to cradle the side of my face. The care in it makes my chest ache worse than heat ever could.
When I pull back, he doesn't chase, even though I can feel the desire to do exactly that. The restraint isn't distance. It's a choice, and that might be the most intimate thing about it.
“I still don’t know what this is,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes lightly along my jaw. “Neither do I.”
“That should bother you more.”
“It does.”
I smile despite myself. “Honesty without negotiation?”
His mouth curves faintly. “I’m committed to the experiment.”
I rest my forehead against his chest for a second, and he goes still beneath me before slowly sliding his arm around my back.
His hold remains loose and unhurried, never tightening into something possessive or asking for more than I'm willing to give. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, the quiet doesn't feel like something waiting to hurt us. It just feels quiet.
Eventually, I step back, though not far, and Marcus lets me. The fact that he doesn't question the distance or try to close it again matters more than I can explain.
“I should go before this turns into something neither of us planned,” I say.
His expression changes, desire flickering across his face so openly that my pulse responds before I can stop it.
“Planning has not helped me as much as I once believed.”
I laugh softly. “Careful. That almost sounded like growth.”
“Uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
The smile lingers between us for another second before reality begins to press in again. Apex. Julian. The public narrative still shifting beyond these walls. The fake engagement that has become too real to be simple and not quite real enough to be safe.
But for the first time, I don't feel the urge to run from any of it.
Marcus walks me to the door, stopping before we reach it. “Sloane.”
I turn back.
Marcus hesitates, not because he doesn't know what to say, but because he's choosing not to force the moment into something larger than it can carry.
“Thank you for coming here,” he says.
The simplicity of it affects me more than it should.
“You're welcome.”
My hand rests on the door handle, but I don't open it yet. Instead, I look at him one more time, at the man who once felt dangerous because he controlled too much and now feels dangerous because I finally understand why.
Somehow, that makes staying feel less like surrender and more like a choice.
“I'm not running,” I say.
Something shifts in his expression, subtle enough that most people would miss it. I don't.
“I know,” he says.
This time, I believe him.