23. Marcus
Marcus
Sloane’s hand stays on the office door handle for a second after she tells me she isn’t running. Neither of us moves immediately.
The city glows beyond the windows behind her, throwing soft reflections across the glass walls of my office while the quiet settles around us in a way that feels unfamiliar now. Not tense. Not waiting for one of us to ruin it.
Sloane studies me for another second before exhaling softly. “You know, this would probably be a more dramatic exit if I actually left.”
“I had considered pointing that out.”
“That would’ve ruined the mood.”
“I’m trying very hard not to ruin things tonight.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. God. That expression is becoming dangerous to my ability to think clearly.
Instead of opening the door, she lets go of the handle and turns back toward the office slowly, gaze drifting across the room before settling on the coffee mug abandoned near the conference table.
“That still warm?” she asks.
“Probably.”
“You sound confident.”
“I delegate optimism selectively.”
Sloane snorts quietly under her breath before crossing the room and picking up the mug. I watch her take a sip. I also watch immediate regret move across her face.
“That’s terrible.”
“You still drank it.”
She narrows her eyes at me over the rim of the mug. “I wanted to understand what kind of psychological damage creates this level of bitterness voluntarily.”
“It’s coffee.”
“It tastes like regret.”
I follow her farther into the office, watching her take another sip. “You took a second sip.”
“That was research.”
“Dedicated research.”
“PR requires sacrifice.”
The laugh that leaves me is quiet but real, and the moment it happens, Sloane looks at me differently; not surprised exactly, just... softer.
“There you are,” she says quietly.
That catches me off guard, because this is the new part—wanting Sloane stopped being simple a long time ago. But this ease between us, this quiet absence of fear and resistance, feels infinitely more dangerous.
Standing in my office after hours while Sloane insults my coffee like she belongs here; neither of us waiting for the next impact to force our hand, I realize how long it's been since anything between us felt this uncomplicated. I don’t think I realized how exhausting the bracing had become until it stopped.
Sloane sets the mug down and glances toward the skyline. “It’s weird seeing the city this quiet.”
“It isn’t quiet.”
“Compared to this week, it is.”
The silence follows naturally as she drifts toward the windows, heels abandoned somewhere near the couch. I watch her flex her bare toes against the dark hardwood floor with quiet satisfaction.
“That feels unreasonably better,” she says.
“You took your shoes off in my office.”
“You say that like I committed corporate misconduct.”
“You might have.”
“Then you shouldn’t be staring at my legs like that during an active investigation.”
My gaze lifts slowly back to her face.
“I’m not sure the investigation is the problem.”
Heat flickers briefly across her expression before she shakes her head. “See? This is exactly why HR hates you.”
“HR likes me.”
“HR fears you.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not a meaningful one.”
I laugh quietly. Actually laugh. The sound feels unfamiliar enough that Sloane turns toward me fully, eyebrows lifting slightly, then her expression softens.
“You should do that more often,” she says quietly.
“Drink terrible coffee?”
“Laugh.”
Something in my chest loosens with a quiet relief I wasn't expecting. Just enough to make me realize how long it has been since someone looked at me like they were relieved to find me underneath everything else.
I cross the room before I consciously decide to.
Sloane watches me approach without retreating an inch, and the simple fact that she stays exactly where she is does something dangerous to my nervous system.
When I stop in front of her, she tilts her head back slightly to hold my gaze. There's no tension in her expression, no challenge or guarded calculation. Just an openness that feels far more dangerous than any argument we've ever had.
I reach up and brush a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.
“You’re quiet,” she murmurs.
“I’m trying to process the fact that you insulted my coffee for five consecutive minutes and somehow made it attractive.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It probably is.”
Her smile grows.
I slide my hand to the side of her neck, thumb brushing lightly beneath her jaw, and this time nothing in me feels frantic about the contact. No urgency or fear that the moment will disappear if I don’t hold it tightly enough.
For the first time since this started, wanting her doesn't feel tangled up in damage control or emotional survival. It simply feels honest. Sloane leans into my hand, and the quiet trust in that simple gesture nearly undoes me.
“You know,” she says quietly, “most people would buy better coffee after becoming billionaires.”
“I like this coffee.”
“You’ve Stockholm-syndromed yourself.”
I kiss her before she can keep talking. Mostly because I want to. Partially because she deserves consequences.
Sloane laughs softly against my mouth before the sound dissolves into something quieter as she kisses me back. That's the difference tonight. The heat hasn't diminished in the slightest, but for the first time, neither of us is reaching for it like we're trying to outrun something else.
But nothing about this feels rushed anymore. I’m not trying to consume the distance between us before something else tears it open again. And Sloane isn’t kissing me like she’s fighting herself every second she stays close.
We already crossed that battlefield. Now we’re standing in what survived it.
My hands settle at her waist as hers slide up my chest, fingers curling lightly into my shirt. The contact is unhurried enough that I feel every hitch in her breathing, every soft exhale against my mouth, every tiny adjustment she makes to stay closer.
It feels infinitely more intimate than desperation ever did.
When I pull back slightly, Sloane studies me for a second like she’s still getting used to seeing me without the armor fully locked into place.
“You look different lately,” she says.
“That sounds concerning.”
“It’s not.”
“What does it mean?”
She traces one finger slowly along my tie before answering. “You seem less... sharp around the edges.”
I glance down at her hand. “I wasn’t aware I had edges.”
“Marcus.”
“I had a few edges.”
“A few,” she repeats flatly.
I smile again, and this time she smiles with me immediately. The ease of it almost feels more intimate than the kissing.
Sloane’s gaze shifts briefly toward the couch behind us before returning to mine. “You know, this office is starting to develop a reputation.”
“That sounds like a communications issue.”
“That sounds like your fault.”
“I seem to recall you entering the office voluntarily.”
“Interesting. Is this your legal defense strategy?”
“It’s evolving in real time.”
“Dangerous words from a man under active investigation for terrible coffee and workplace misconduct.”
I slide one arm around her waist and pull her gently against me. “You’re still here.”
Her expression softens instantly.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “I am.”
The room grows quiet around us, and for once the silence feels easy. It leaves space for the truth beneath everything else to exist without either of us needing to explain it again.
Sloane touches my face lightly, fingertips warm against my skin. “You know what I realized today?”
“What?”
“You stopped trying to convince me.”
She’s right. At some point, without consciously deciding to, I stopped managing every emotional variable between us. Stopped trying to shape her reactions before they happened. Stopped reaching for control every time uncertainty made my chest tighten.
Not perfectly. No, probably never perfectly, but enough that she noticed.
“I think I finally understood something,” I admit.
“What?”
“That if you have to constantly manage a person into staying, they were never actually with you to begin with.”
The words leave my mouth quietly and without hesitation.
Sloane stares at me for a moment as if the answer catches her off guard. Then she closes the distance between us completely.
“You really are growing,” she murmurs.
“Painfully.”
“I noticed.”
I kiss her again before she can keep teasing me, and this time the heat unfolds more slowly but deeper, built on recognition instead of collision. Her hands slip into my hair as mine move carefully along her back, learning instead of taking, paying attention instead of trying to outrun the moment.
The difference matters, and I feel it everywhere. When I lift her into my arms, Sloane laughs softly in surprise before wrapping her legs around my waist automatically.
“Marcus.”
“You’re distracting.”
“You started this.”
“I’m aware.”
“Shocking level of accountability.”
I carry her toward the couch anyway.
The city stretches around us beyond the windows, lights reflecting softly across the glass while Crossridge continues moving somewhere beneath us. Emails still exist. Board members still exist. Julian is almost certainly planning something irritating.
None of it reaches us here. Not tonight.
Tonight, there is only Sloane in my arms, smiling against my mouth while I lower her carefully onto the couch like I have all the time in the world to memorize her.
And maybe, for the first time in my life, I finally understand that wanting more time with someone is very different from trying to control what happens next. I carry that understanding with me as I kiss her slowly beneath the glow of the city lights.
No more pretending or performance. There’s no script left between us at all.