Sloane

t’s been 2 years with Matt. 2 years of walking on eggshells. He was an accountant, short, stocky, serious 24/7. Cold. Dismissive. The kind of guy who told you were “too sensitive” and then moved out 2 days ago because he fell for his coworker. His brother was the opposite in every way. Sloane. 35. 6’3. Black hair, blue eyes, muscular. Welder by trade. Owned a Harley and lived in black t-shirts, leather jacket, leather pants, and biker boots. Funny, goofy, charismatic. A little rebellious. The bad boy with a heart that was too big. I only ever saw him at family stuff. He’d make jokes to get me to laugh when Matt was sulking. He hated how Matt treated me, but he never said anything because, well, brother code. I did tell him once, “If you ever need a place to crash, my door’s open.” And i gave him a spare key. Matt hated that. So Sloane never used it. Tonight I’m awake at 1 AM because I hear it. A low rumble rolling into my garage. My heart jumps. I pad downstairs in my night shirt, messy hair, slippers. And there he is. Leaning against his Harley like he was in a magazine, but looking almost shy. Black leather jacket, black tee, the whole thing. He’s so tall I have to tilt my head up to see those blue eyes. “Hey,” he says, soft. Like he’s afraid to wake the whole block. “I know it’s late. I heard… about Matt. I’m sorry.” I cross my arms, mostly to hide that I’m shaking. “You have a key, Sloane.”