125. Trace
Trace
S carlett had barely stepped out when the quiet turned heavy.
I stayed in the kitchen, gripping the counter as if steadiness could be borrowed. As if it could stop the echo of the sound she made when I touched her.
Or the way Alden looked at her, already halfway to goodbye.
Sloane walked in with the ease of someone who didn’t need permission. She poured herself coffee, took a sip, then looked straight at me.
“You always this tense?” I asked.
“You always this in love?” she shot back.
I didn’t answer.
She waited, measuring me with that same calm intensity.
“I’ve known Scarlett since we were eight,” she said. “I’ve seen her wild. Soft. Wrecked. I’ve seen her fight through things most people would run from.”
Her voice quieted.
“But I’ve never seen her carry this much… It’s you,” she added. “That’s the part that gets me. It’s not Alden. Not the bond. It’s always been you.”
I looked away.
“She won’t choose,” she said. “Not really. But if she did?”
“I don’t want her to,” I muttered.
Sloane set her mug down with a soft clink. “Bullshit.”
She stepped closer, not flinching.
“You want her in every way a man can have a woman. But you’ll let her tear you apart just to keep her whole.”
I didn’t respond.
Because she was right.
And I hated how much that felt like love.