Chapter 10: Unlocked Doors
The world snapped back into a brutal, pixelated focus. One second, there was only the feeling of Kieran’s hands, the press of his body, the dizzying, breathless ascent. The next, the sharp click of the latch, the creak of the door, and the stunned silence that was somehow louder than any scream.
Sloane froze, her body going rigid above Kieran. His grip on her hips tightened, a reflexive, possessive clench. He turned his head, his gaze cutting over her shoulder toward the door. His expression didn’t change to panic or embarrassment. It just hardened, a gatekeeper assessing a threat.
Viv stood there, a white paper bag from the overpriced bakery down the street dangling from her fingers. Her eyes were wide, her mouth a perfect, shocked ‘o’. The bag rustled as her hand trembled slightly.
Time stretched, thin and taut. Then, Viv’s face collapsed not into anger, but into a wry, exhausted smirk. She let out a short, breathy laugh that held no humor.
“Well,” she said, her voice flat. “This is a mood.”
Sloane scrambled off Kieran, her face burning. She fumbled for the throw blanket tangled at the end of the couch, pulling it over herself. The air, once thick with heat, was now choked with a devastating awkwardness. The scent of turpentine from her forgotten canvases in the corner suddenly smelled acrid.
Viv took a slow, deliberate step forward. She looked from Sloane’s flushed, guilty face to Kieran, who had calmly sat up, pulling his t-shirt back on with an infuriating lack of haste. He met her gaze, unblinking.
“I brought apology pastries,” Viv said, holding up the bag. “Figured we should talk. You know. Like adults.” She looked at the couch, then back at them. “Clearly, you were working on a different kind of communication.”
“Viv,” Sloane started, her voice a strained whisper. “It’s not—”
“Oh, it definitely is,” Viv cut her off, but the bite was gone, replaced by a weary resignation. She shook her head, a sad little smile playing on her lips. “At least let me make coffee before you fully defile the only piece of furniture we own that isn’t covered in paint.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, turning on her heel and marching into their small, connected kitchen. The familiar sounds followed—the cabinet door groaning open, the clatter of the ceramic mug collection, the gurgle of the water tank filling.
Sloane stood rooted to the spot, the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders like a shield. She could feel Kieran’s eyes on her. She glanced at him. He just gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, as if to say, This was inevitable.
“I should go,” he said, his voice low.
“No,” Sloane and Viv said in unison from the kitchen.
Viv reappeared, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “Stay. You’re part of this… whatever this is now. Might as well hear it all.” She looked at Sloane. “You okay?”
The question was so simple, so quintessentially Viv, that it nearly broke Sloane. After everything, after the fight, after walking in on this, her first instinct was to check on her. Sloane just nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
Kieran stood. He didn’t approach Sloane, didn’t try to touch her. He just looked at Viv. “It’s not what you think,” he said, his tone even.
“And what do I think, Kieran?” Viv challenged, her eyebrow arched. “That my best friend, who has a history of getting in over her head with emotionally unavailable guys, is now tangled up with the king of emotionally unavailable guys? The one who literally told me two months ago, and I quote, ‘I don’t do relationships, they’re messy’?”
He didn’t flinch. “People change.”
“Do they?” Viv shot back. “Or do they just see something shiny and new?”
“Okay, stop,” Sloane interjected, finding her voice. It was stronger than she expected. “Just… stop talking about me like I’m not here.” She looked at Viv, her gaze pleading. “You were right, okay? I blew up at you. I was a bitch. But you were right to be worried.”
Viv’s defensive posture softened a fraction. The coffee maker hissed and sputtered, finishing its cycle.
“I’m not a child, Viv. I know what this is.” Sloane gestured between herself and Kieran. “It’s messy and it’s complicated and it scares the hell out of me, too. But it’s also… it’s real.”
Kieran was watching her, his intense focus entirely on her now. The air in the room shifted again. This wasn’t about being caught anymore. It was about the line they had crossed, the one Viv had tried to guard.
Viv let out a long, slow breath. She walked back into the kitchen and returned with three mugs of coffee. She handed one to Sloane, then one to Kieran. Her fingers brushed his as she passed it over, a temporary, fragile truce.
“I’m not trying to be your mom, Sloane,” Viv said, her voice quiet. “I’m trying to be your friend. And friends watch out for each other.” She took a sip of her coffee, wincing at the heat. “You’re my person. The thought of you getting hurt…” She trailed off, looking into her mug. “It makes me act like an asshole.”
“I know,” Sloane whispered.
They stood there, a tense triangle in the cluttered apartment, the rain starting to tap gently against the window. The jazz record in the corner had reached its end, leaving a soft, vinyl crackle in the silence.
Kieran cleared his throat. “I’m not going to hurt her,” he said. The statement was quiet, but it landed with the weight of a vow.
Viv looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since she’d walked in. She saw the way his gaze kept flicking back to Sloane, not with lust now, but with something deeper, something territorial and protective. She saw the way he stood, not like a guest, but like someone who belonged in the chaos of their space.
“You’d better not,” Viv said finally, her tone losing its edge. “Because if you do, I don’t care how many tattoos or how many scary friends you have. I’m an actress. I can fake a hell of a crime scene.”
A genuine smile, small and relieved, touched Sloane’s lips for the first time.
Kieran almost smiled back. “Noted.”
Viv picked up the bakery bag from the floor where she’d dropped it. She pulled out a slightly squashed, buttery croissant. She broke it in three, handing a piece to Sloane and offering one to Kieran.
He took it.
“So,” Viv said, taking a large bite of her piece. “Now that we’ve established I’m basically a saint for this… are we good?”
Sloane looked at her best friend, then at the man standing silently in her living room, a piece of her pastry in his hand. The world, for a moment, felt terrifyingly, wonderfully open.
“We’re good,” Sloane said, and meant it.