6. Dinner and Disarmament
Dinner and Disarmament
COOPER
Ihave spent the last twenty minutes sitting in my car, staring at a small, plastic Batman head and wondering if I look more like a professional podcaster or a man about to commit a very specific type of social suicide.
The steering wheel feels cold under my palms, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from the dashboard vents.
I’m an athlete. I’ve faced fourth-down situations with forty thousand people screaming for my head, but standing on Sloane Donovan’s doorstep feels like a significantly more dangerous play.
The LEGO piece is a jagged little reminder of why I’m here.
It’s a peace offering, or maybe it’s just evidence that I’m becoming the kind of guy who carries toy parts in his pocket like a talisman.
I tuck it into the small pocket of my jeans, the one meant for coins but currently serving as a vault for a six-year-old’s happiness.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothing down the front of my henley.
It’s charcoal, fitted, and hopefully says I am a reliable partner rather than I am a network-mandated intruder.
I climb the stairs to her apartment, the air in the hallway smelling faintly of floor wax and the lingering ghost of someone’s dinner—garlic and toasted bread.
When I reach 4B, I don’t knock immediately.
I listen. There’s a muffled sound of laughter, high and bright, followed by Sloane’s voice, which even through wood carries that rhythmic, low-frequency authority that makes her listeners feel like they’re being let in on a secret.
I take a breath, count to three, and knock.
The door doesn’t just open; it yields. Milo stands there, looking up at me with the kind of unfiltered curiosity that adults usually spend decades learning how to kill.
He’s a miniature, high-energy version of the woman I can’t stop thinking about.
He’s wearing a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it, and his hair is a messy map of where a comb hasn't been in at least four hours. Behind him, Sloane is frozen in the middle of the living room, holding a stack of napkins like they’re a shield.
She looks sharp. She always looks sharp, like she was carved out of something durable and slightly cold, but there’s a smudge of flour on her cheek that makes my chest tighten in a way I hadn’t planned for.
"You're late," Milo announces, though he’s already stepping back to let me in. "The pizza guy came ten minutes ago. He had a hat. Do you have a hat?"
"I don't have a hat, buddy, but I have something better," I say, stepping into the apartment. The space is small, tidy, and feels like a fortress built for two. There’s a shelf full of books on forensic psychology and a small pile of primary-colored trucks near the radiator. It’s a collision of worlds.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the Batman head, holding it out like a diamond. "I found a fugitive in the green room."
Milo’s eyes go wide, and he snatches the piece with a gasp that sounds like he’s just witnessed a miracle. "Batman! You found his brain! Mom, look! Cooper found the brain!"
Sloane moves then, closing the distance between us with a stride that is entirely too graceful for someone wearing wool socks and leggings.
She stops just outside my personal space, her scent hitting me—something crisp and citrusy, like a lemon grove after a storm.
She doesn’t smile, but the tectonic tension in her jaw has shifted to something more like a guarded curiosity.
"You didn't have to do that, Cooper. I could have bought a new set. "
"Why buy a new set when the original is just looking for a way home?" I ask, and for a second, our eyes lock. Her eyes are the color of strong tea, dark and observant, and I get the distinct feeling she’s looking for the catch. She’s scanning for the corporate angle, the PR-approved motive.
I just stand there, keeping my hands visible, trying to project a vibe that says I am just a guy who likes LEGOs and pepperoni.
"Pizza is in the kitchen," she says, turning away so quickly I almost feel the draft. "Milo, go wash your hands. Use the soap this time, not just the water."
The kitchen is a galley style, cramped and warm.
A cardboard box sits on the small laminate table, the scent of oregano and melted cheese filling the air.
Sloane is already busy, moving with a domestic efficiency that’s fascinating to watch.
She grabs plates, pours a glass of milk for Milo, and sets out a water for me without asking what I want.
It’s an exercise in control, a way to keep the chaos of my presence contained within the boundaries of a Tuesday night routine.
"Can I help with anything?" I ask, leaning against the counter. The space is so tight that when she reaches for a drawer, her elbow brushes my ribs. It’s a nothing touch, a momentary lapse in geography, but the heat of it zips straight up my spine—a sixty-eight-degree studio lie finally meeting the real-world temperature of her skin.
She freezes for a heartbeat, her breath hitching, before pulling the drawer open with a little more force than necessary.
"You can sit," she says, her voice regaining its razor edge. "That's usually what guests do. Although I'm not sure 'guest' is the right word for a coworker who was invited by a six-year-old."
"I’m an invited intruder," I suggest, sliding into one of the chairs. "It’s a niche category. Very exclusive."
She huffs—a sound that’s almost a laugh but much more defensive.
She sits across from me, and Milo skids into the room, hopping into his seat with the Batman head already clicked back onto its body.
We eat in a silence that isn't exactly comfortable, but isn't a war zone either. Milo does most of the heavy lifting, explaining the complex social hierarchy of his first-grade class while Sloane watches him with an expression so tender it feels like I’m seeing something I shouldn't.
The cracks in the armor aren't just there; they're gaping.
"So, Cooper," Milo says, his mouth half-full of crust. "Are you going to be on the radio with Mom every day?"
I feel Sloane’s gaze sharpen, a physical weight on the side of my face. I keep my focus on Milo. "That's the plan. We're going to talk about the truth and maybe argue a little bit. Your mom is very good at the arguing part."
"She argues with the TV sometimes," Milo confides, ignoring Sloane’s warning look. "Especially when the people in the suits tell lies. She says lies are like termites. They eat the house down from the inside."
I look over at Sloane. She’s staring at her pizza, her fingers tracing the edge of her napkin.
The fierce, untouchable host of The Truth Trap is currently being outed as a woman who yells at her television in her socks.
It’s the most charming thing I’ve ever heard.
"Termites, huh? That’s a solid metaphor.
I usually just go with 'trash fire,' but I like the structural damage angle. "
Sloane finally looks up, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something that isn't suspicion in her eyes. It’s a reluctant, microscopic grain of respect. "I try to keep him informed. Being a kid doesn't mean you have to be a mark for every grifter with a microphone."
"Is that what you think I am?" I ask softly. The humor is gone, replaced by a sudden, urgent need for her to see me. Not the guy Graham Voss hired to 'soften the brand.' Not the athlete with the easy smile. Just me.
She doesn't answer immediately. She watches Milo, who is busy making Batman fight a pepperoni slice. The smallness of the kitchen suddenly feels like a pressure cooker. I can see the pulse in her neck, the way her shoulders are set high and tight. She’s a woman who has been handled and edited and sold, and I am the latest product being shoved onto her shelf.
I get it. I really do. But the Red Flag File is still sitting in my brain—all those notes Rhea Saye compiled about Sloane’s 'leak risk' history—and it makes me want to reach across the table and take her hand.
Which is a terrible idea. A career-ending, boundary-shattering, absolutely-do-not-do-that idea.
"I think you're disarmingly competent, Cooper," she says eventually, her voice barely a whisper. "And that’s the most dangerous thing a person can be in this industry."
"I'm not the enemy, Sloane. I know the network is playing a game, but I'm not the ball they're throwing at you."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and the distance between us feels like a wire stretched to the breaking point. "Everyone says they aren't the ball until they realize they're being aimed at a window."
"I'm good at catching," I say, the joke landing with more weight than I intended. "And I'm even better at staying put."
Milo chooses that moment to drop his Batman into his milk.
The splash is small, but it’s enough to break the spell.
Sloane is on her feet in a second, grabbing a towel, her movements sharp and practiced.
I jump up to help, my hand landing on the table right next to hers as I reach for a stray napkin.
Our pinkies brush, just a sliver of contact, and the air in the room seems to vanish.
It’s not just chemistry; it’s a collision of frequencies.
She pulls her hand back as if I’ve burned her, her eyes wide and dark.
"I've got it," she says, her voice brittle. "It's fine. Milo, go get your pajamas on. It's almost bedtime."
"But Batman is swimming!" Milo protests, though he’s already sliding out of his chair. He looks at me, then at his mom, his six-year-old radar picking up on the static in the air. "Are you okay, Mom? Your face is red."
"It's the steam from the pizza, honey," she lies, and it’s the clumsiest thing I’ve ever heard her say. "Go. Now."
Milo trudges out, leaving us alone in the wreck of a Tuesday night dinner.
I stay where I am, leaning against the counter, watching her scrub at a nonexistent milk stain on the laminate.
She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling beneath her shirt, and I realize with a jolt of pure, terrifying clarity that I’m not just falling for a co-host. I’m falling for the whole fortress.
The books, the trucks, the milk splashes, and the woman who tries so hard to pretend none of it matters.
"Sloane," I say, my voice low. "I meant what I said. About being a partner."
She stops scrubbing but doesn't look at me. She stands there, her back to me, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. "Partnership requires trust, Cooper. And trust is a currency I ran out of a long time ago. I don't have enough in the bank to cover you."
"Then let me open a tab," I suggest. It’s a cheesy line, the kind of thing my sister Lena would tell me to cut from a script, but I say it anyway because it’s the truth. "I'm not going anywhere. Even if you keep the vault locked."
She turns around then, and for a fleeting second, the guard is completely down.
She looks tired. Not just 'long day at the studio' tired, but 'years of being the only one keeping the lights on' tired. She looks at me, and I see the woman beneath the brand—the mother who worries about Batman’s brain and the person who just wants to feel safe. It’s a bookmark moment, the kind of image I’ll replay when the network starts its next round of sabotage.
"The vault is there for a reason," she says, her voice regaining its strength. "It's not just me inside it."
"I know. I saw the trucks."
She almost smiles. It’s a ghost of a thing, a twitch at the corner of her mouth that disappears before it can fully form, but it’s there.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all week.
"You should go, Cooper. Milo is going to want a bedtime story, and he’s a very harsh critic.
He doesn't like narrators who try to 'broaden the audience. '"
"Fair enough," I say, pushing off the counter. I move toward the door, feeling her eyes on my back the whole way. When I reach the handle, I turn back. "Thanks for the pizza, Sloane. And for the metaphor about the termites. I’ll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she repeats. It sounds less like a threat and more like a fact. Or maybe, if I’m being optimistic, a promise.
I walk down the stairs, the cool night air hitting my face as I step onto the sidewalk.
My heart is doing something rhythmic and urgent against my ribs, a tempo I recognize from the gym but feels entirely different here.
I reach into my pocket, expecting to find the LEGO head, but it’s gone—back on the body where it belongs.
I get into my car and sit in the dark for a minute, the silence of the street pressing in.
I came here to prove I belonged at NovaWave.
I’m leaving realizing that NovaWave is the least important thing in this entire equation.
I drive away, the city lights blurring into long, glowing streaks against the windshield.
I don't turn on the radio. I don't need the noise. I just need the memory of that almost-smile and the weight of the secret file sitting on my hard drive at home. The network wants a show. They want tension and ratings and a manufactured rivalry. But as I pull into my own parking spot, I know I’m going to give them something else entirely. I’m going to protect that fortress, even if I have to burn the whole network down to do it.
I don't sleep well that night. I dream of LEGO Batmen and tea-colored eyes and the sound of a vault door creaking open just a fraction of an inch. When the sun finally comes up, I’m already dressed, already caffeinated, and already planning the next play.
It’s going to be a long season, but for the first time since I stepped into that studio, I know exactly what I’m playing for.