Hearts Beating Too Hard
Cohen
The walk from the Central Hall back to our chalet is a complete blackout in my memory.
I know I walked. I know I held Sloane’s hand.
But my brain stayed behind—stuck on Joe’s smug face and the poison he spit at her.
You’re not built to take care of a man.
You can’t handle pressure.
You’re fragile.
I slam the chalet door shut and lock it with a hard click.
Inside, everything is quiet. The fire is low in the hearth.
The fury inside me is blinding—a white, buzzing noise in my ears.
I want to leave, storm back there, and finish what I started.
I want to make him choke on that stupid floral apron—along with his perfectly straight teeth.
And the more I replay it, the more it eats at me.
The only thing holding me back?
I’m desperately trying to prove to myself that I am capable of being a decent human being. That having my father’s blood in my veins doesn’t automatically make me an asshole.
I start pacing the room, dragging both hands through my hair, trying to bleed off the adrenaline before I explode.
“Who the hell does he think he is?” I growl, mostly to myself.
Sure… I tried to let it go. I kept going through the challenge. I joked with Sloane. I held her close.
But when we were about to head back to our separate chalets and I heard him throw out one last pathetic comment… yeah. That flipped the switch. Hard.
Then I stop.
Because I don’t hear anything behind me.
No snarky comeback. No “calm down, Becker.”
Nothing.
I turn.
Sloane is standing near the kitchen entrance.
She hasn’t taken off her coat.
She hasn’t moved.
She’s staring at the floor like she’s trying not to fall through it.
Her arms are wrapped around herself, like she’s physically holding herself together.
And she’s shaking.
Not a cold shiver—this is a deep, full-body tremor that shakes her shoulders.
My anger evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, sharp punch to the gut.
I hate myself. Immediately. Because I didn’t look at her first. Because I let rage blind me.
“Sloane?”
My voice comes out softer.
She doesn’t answer.
I take two cautious steps toward her—slow, the way you approach a wounded animal.
“Hey.”
I place my hands on her arms over the wool of her coat. She’s vibrating under my palms.
“Look at me.”
She lifts her gaze.
Her eyes are dry, but there’s an ocean of insecurity inside them—an abyss I’ve never seen in her.
The Sloane I know—the Queen of Hearts who commands an entire town—is gone.
In her place is a girl who looks like she believes every horrible word that asshole ever said to her.
“Sloane, breathe,” I say gently.
Instead of breathing, she collapses.
Her knees buckle and I catch her before she can hit the ground—pulling her against my chest, wrapping her up completely, burying my face in her hair.
“I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
She clutches the back of my shirt, fingers fisting the fabric.
She’s not crying.
She just shakes.
And that’s somehow worse.
We stay like that for what feels like forever—me holding her, her trying to find her center again.
Jealousy twists low in my gut.
Why does hurt this much?
Why do his words still have this kind of power?
A dark thought slithers in:
Because she still cares.
Maybe she hasn’t let him go.
Maybe everything between us—the chemistry, the laughter, the insane sex—is just noise compared to what she once felt for him.
The idea that I might just be a distraction—a Band-Aid slapped onto a wound still bleeding for someone else—makes it hard to breathe.
But then she sighs against my neck, small and fragile, and I shove my insecurity down.
Not now.
Right now she needs me.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I whisper against her temple. “And don’t tell me you’re fine.”
She pulls back just enough to breathe, but not enough to leave my arms.
“I feel—”
Her voice cracks. She swallows hard and tries again.
“I feel stupid. I let him get in my head. Again.”
“What did he say, Sloane? Besides the bullshit about cooking?”
She looks down at my chest.
“He always made me feel… inadequate, Cohen. Always. No matter what I did, it was never enough. I wasn’t sweet enough. I wasn’t domestic enough. I was too focused on work, too loud, too… me.”
She looks up, and there’s a fear in her eyes that cuts me clean open.
“And today, when he said those things… for a second, I felt like that girl again. The one who isn’t enough. The one who’s wrong.”
I stare at her, stunned.
Wrong? Her?
She’s a wildfire, a hurricane, the most exhilarating thing to happen to me in twenty-seven years.
“You’re not wrong,” I say, voice low and steady. “You’re perfect.”
She gives a bitter, shaky laugh. “I’m not. I’m a mess, Becker. You know that. I’m neurotic, controlling, I burn figs, and—”
“And you’re funny,” I cut in. “You’re scary smart. You’re loyal. You’re the only person alive who can actually keep up with me.”
I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to see what I see.
“He wanted a small woman because he’s a small man, Sloane. He wanted someone he could put on a shelf.
You? You’re not shelf material. You’re made to take up the whole damn room.”
My thumbs sweep over her cheeks.
“Who cares if you can roast a chicken? I care about the way you yell at me when I’m being an idiot. The way you laugh when everything’s chaos. The way you hold everyone else together. You are incredible. Exactly like this.”
Her lips tremble.
“Really?” she whispers.
“Really.”
She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against mine.
“I’m scared, Cohen,” she admits—soft, like it’s a secret.
My heart stutters.
“Of what?”
Please say me. Please say this. Please say us.
She hesitates. I feel her tense.
“Of… messing everything up.”
There’s more.
I can feel it.
Something about Joe, or us, or how this all started.
But I don’t push.
Not tonight.
The jealousy still burns—burns knowing that idiot once had the power to dim her like this—but I shove it down again.
“I’m here, Sloane,” I murmur, kissing her forehead. “And I’m not letting you ruin anything. We’re a team, remember? A hundred points. First place.”
She gives me a tiny smile—weak but real.
“Yeah. First place.”
She looks at me, and her eyes are a storm of confusion.
And I’m terrified.
Terrified that if she digs too deep—if she realizes how far gone I already am—she’ll run.
“Come on,” I say, loosening my hold but taking her hand. “You’re exhausted. And you smell like burnt figs.”
She lets out a watery laugh. “You don’t smell like roses either, Becker.”
“Shower?” I offer, half-joking, half-hopeful.
She meets my eyes.
There’s a beat of hesitation.
Then she shakes her head.
“No. I just… want to lie down. Will you hold me?”
That hits harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
She’s not asking for sex.
Not asking to forget the day in a haze of orgasms.
She’s asking for comfort.
Intimacy.
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “I’ll hold you.”
I lead her to the bed.
We lie down fully dressed, on top of the blankets.
She curls into me, her back against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, tangling our legs.
Her breath evens out.
She drifts to sleep.
I stay awake, staring into the dark.
Feeling the weight of her body against mine.
Feeling the weight of my jealousy.
Hoping she’s dreaming of me—
And terrified that in the quiet corners of her mind, she’s still fighting ghosts of him.