Chapter 11: Fridge Magnetism
The slam of the door was a full stop. The vibrating silence that followed was heavier than the noise. Sloane stood against the fridge, the cold seeping through her thin t-shirt, the ghost of his hands still burning on her hips. The air smelled of cold metal, old spinach, and him—whiskey-soaked ink and cold night air.
She pushed off the appliance, her legs feeling unsteady. The apartment, usually a chaotic comfort, felt alien. A half-finished canvas of a stormy sky mocked her from the easel. It wasn't angry enough. Not even close.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Viv. The screen lit up with a string of apology emojis followed by: You alive? Do I need to send a search party or just more pastries?
Sloane typed back, her thumbs clumsy. Alive. No pastries. Just… vibes.
Vibes? What kind of vibes? The kind that require a cigarette and a stiff drink or the kind that require a pint of ice cream and a documentary about whales?
The former. Definitely the former.
On my way. Do not move.
Sloane almost smiled. She righted the kitchen stool, her gaze catching on the two abandoned coffee mugs. His had a faint smudge of her lipstick on the rim. A relic. The record had ended, the needle clicking in the dead silence. She didn’t put on another. The quiet was too loud, too full of his exit.
She busied herself cleaning, a futile attempt to scrub away the tension. Wiped the counter, washed the mugs, her skin humming with the memory of his growl. You were mine. Possession. That’s what it was. Not a question, not a suggestion. A statement of fact she felt in her bones. It should have pissed her off. The old Sloane, the one from three months ago, would have laughed in his face. But now? It felt like a key turning in a lock she didn’t know existed.
When Viv let herself in twenty minutes later, she carried the scent of cold city and a brown paper bag from the bodega. She held up a bottle of cheap whiskey and a pack of American Spirits. “Rations have arrived.”
Sloane took the whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, burning swallow. She coughed, wiping her mouth. “He just left.”
“I gathered.” Viv shrugged off her coat, her eyes scanning the room, taking inventory. The settled dust, the two mugs drying on the rack, Sloane’s flushed, unsettled face. “So. Slamming you against appliances. That’s a new one. Dramatic, but effective.”
“It wasn’t like that.” Sloane sank onto the couch, tucking her feet underneath her. The spot where Kieran had been sitting still held a slight dent in the cushion.
“Looked exactly like that from my vantage point.” Viv joined her, cracking open the whiskey for her own sip. “He say anything? Or was it all grunting and primal intensity?”
“He said… something.” Sloane traced a thread on the couch’s worn velvet. “It was like he couldn’t get out of here fast enough after. Like he scared himself.”
Viv snorted. “Kieran Blackwood? Scared? That man’s got the emotional range of a brick wall. A very pretty, well-tattooed brick wall.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t think he does.” Sloane looked at her friend, the words tumbling out. “It’s all in there, Viv. Everything. The anger, the… whatever that was. It’s all under the surface, and when it cracks, it’s like a damn breaking. And then he has to go be a brick wall again.”
“And you want to be the one who gets to see the dam break.” Viv’s voice was softer now, less teasing. She wasn’t asking.
Sloane didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The truth was a physical weight in her chest. She’d spent her life sketching surfaces, capturing the light on skin, the curve of a shadow. He was a walking, talking cathedral of shadows, and she wanted to map every one.
“Just be careful, Sloane,” Viv said, leaning her head back. “Walls that fall down fast usually crush whatever’s standing too close.”
They passed the bottle back and forth until the sharp edges of the evening began to blur. Sloane lit a cigarette, leaning out the window, the cold air a welcome shock. The city glowed below, a million stories happening at once. His was one of them. And against her better judgment, she was now a character in it.
Later, after Viv had fallen asleep on the couch, Sloane crept to her easel. She didn’t turn on the bright studio light. She worked by the faint glow of the streetlamp outside her window. She picked up a stick of charcoal, her fingers still smelling of tobacco.
She didn’t paint the stormy sky. She started sketching the lines she knew by heart now: the sharp angle of a jaw, the slope of a shoulder, the intricate patterns that snaked down an arm. It wasn’t a portrait. It was a map of pressure points. Of whispered words and the cold weight of a refrigerator against her spine. She drew the dam, not after it broke, but in the exact moment the first, hairline fracture appeared.