Room Temperature

SLOANE

Friday dinner in the basement was Dad’s idea, same as Thursday.

“It’s a tradition,” he announced, hauling down the folding table with the enthusiasm of a man who’d spent forty-eight hours sweating through every shirt he owned and was determined to find the silver lining. “Summer heat, family together, makeshift setup. Character building.”

“We have a perfectly good dining room,” Victoria said, following with a stack of plates.

“Perfectly good and currently ninety-one degrees.”

“Fair point.” She handed me the plates and went back upstairs for silverware.

Chase came down last, carrying Victoria’s pasta pot—rigatoni, red sauce, sausage—and set it on the table without comment. He’d showered recently. Hair still slightly damp at the temples, curling at the ends.

I noticed.

I was trying very hard not to notice.

We settled into the positions that had become habit without anyone saying so: Dad at the head, Victoria beside him, Chase and me across from each other. The industrial fans Victoria bought yesterday roared at full speed, creating a low white noise that made conversation require slightly more volume and effort.

It helped.

The effort, I mean. Less room for silence to stretch.

“First thing I’m doing Saturday when they fix it,” Dad said, serving himself, “is standing directly under the living-room vent for five uninterrupted minutes.”

“I want a cold shower that actually stays cold,” Victoria said. “For twenty minutes. I’ve been rationing cold water for two days.”

“I’m sleeping with every blanket I own,” I said.

Three heads turned toward me.

“What? I like being cold when I sleep.”

“In ninety-eight-degree heat,” Chase said, “you’re thinking about blankets.”

“I’m thinking about the *absence* of ninety-eight-degree heat, which will allow for blankets. There’s a difference.”

He picked up his fork. The corner of his mouth moved—barely. “You’re strange.”

“You ate mushroom pizza last night.”

Victoria looked up. “You ate mushroom pizza?”

Chase stabbed a piece of rigatoni. “It was a moment of poor judgment.”

“He took two bites,” I said. “And didn’t die.”

“I reported back that it tasted like wet cardboard.”

“After the second bite.”

“The second bite was scientific inquiry.”

“It was curiosity.”

“It was not—”

“Chase.” Victoria was smiling now, fork paused over her plate. “Did you like it?”

“No.”

“He hesitated,” I said.

“I didn’t hesitate.”

“There was a pause.”

“There was chewing.”

“Before the verdict.”

Dad watched us with the quiet expression he sometimes got at dinner—fond and slightly bewildered, like he wasn’t sure when the warfare had developed texture. He caught my eye and looked quickly back down at his pasta.

I also looked back at my pasta.

Victoria steered the conversation toward the wedding—still two months out, still missing a florist, still a source of low-grade anxiety she managed with the same composed efficiency she applied to everything else. Chase listened more than he talked, asking a few practical questions about the venue (outdoor? indoor?), the contingency plan for weather, whether the caterer had confirmed the menu. Not the polite, bored questions. Real ones.

We migrated after dinner—habit again—to the couch and floor, the same loose arrangement we’d been cycling through since Thursday. He had his phone. I had my laptop, the draft article open, the ending done and sitting there asking to be read one more time before I submitted it.

“I finished it,” I said.

He looked over.

“The article. I’m going to submit it tonight.”

“Yeah?” He set his phone down. “The ending you wouldn’t let me read?”

“Still not letting you read it.”

“I’m the subject.”

“You’re the subject. Not the editor. We’ve had this conversation.”

He stretched his arms overhead—slow, deliberate, the kind of stretch that was at least partly performance. I kept my eyes on my screen. “What does it say?”

“Read it when it’s published.”

“When will that be?”

“A week or two. Derek’s got a queue.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Is it good?”

I looked at the ending. Cursor blinking after the last sentence.

*He skates like someone trying to outrun something—and that’s not the liability it appears to be. The best players aren’t the ones who’ve made peace with the pressure. They’re the ones who’ve learned to use it. Hartley hasn’t arrived yet. But watching him get there might be the most interesting story in this draft class.*

“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

Chase nodded. Looked at his phone. Put it face-down on the cushion.

“Then submit it,” he said.

I hit send.

---

Saturday arrived like relief and reckoning at once.

The repair truck pulled up at eight sharp—two guys who moved with the unhurried efficiency of people who knew exactly how much power they held over a household’s temperature. Victoria hovered. Dad made coffee. Chase and I stayed out of the way on the back deck, where the morning was still cool enough to tolerate if you caught it before ten.

We sat in adjacent deck chairs with our respective coffees—vanilla oat milk for me, black for him—and watched the crew work through the sliding glass door.

“Think they’ll actually finish today?” I asked.

“They said three hours.”

“Repair guys always say three hours.”

“Yeah.” He took a slow sip. “Usually means four.”

They finished in two hours and fifty-eight minutes.

Victoria cried happy tears when the first blast of properly refrigerated air poured through the living-room vent. Dad cranked the thermostat to 68 and declared the house “habitable once more.” The basement fans were unplugged with ceremony. The folding table was carried back upstairs. The fairy lights stayed up because “they’re festive and we suffered for this.”

Everything returned to normal.

Almost.

Chase and I stood in the kitchen while Victoria and Dad argued good-naturedly about whether to celebrate with lunch out or just order in. They were too busy debating prosciutto versus prosciutto-wrapped melon to notice that Chase had moved behind me at the island—close enough that his chest brushed my back when he reached past me for a glass—and that my breath had caught when his fingers grazed my hip for half a second longer than necessary.

He didn’t apologize.

I didn’t move away.

Victoria finally decided on takeout sushi and disappeared into the living room to place the order. Dad followed, already scrolling through the menu on his phone.

The kitchen went quiet.

Chase set the glass down without filling it. Then he turned me slowly by the hips until I was facing him, back against the island edge. His thumbs rested in the shallow dips above my hip bones. Not gripping. Just holding.

“You submitted the article,” he said. Low. Private.

“I did.”

“And?”

“And it’s gone. No take-backs.”

He studied my face like he was looking for cracks. “Was the ending brutal?”

“Honest.”

“Same thing.”

I let out a small breath. “You’ll see when it publishes.”

His thumbs moved—tiny, unconscious circles against my skin through the thin cotton of my tank top.

“I’m not worried about the article,” he said.

“No?”

“I’m worried about what happens now that the house isn’t forcing us into the same sixty-square-foot room every night.”

My pulse kicked.

“Because the basement was mandatory,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“And now it’s not.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us moved.

The doorbell rang—two sharp, confident rings—and Chase’s hands dropped from my hips before the second one finished.

“Probably the dry cleaner,” Victoria called from the living room. Footsteps. The front door swinging open. Then: “Oh my god, *Brittany*.”

The warmth in her voice was immediate and unguarded. The kind you save for people who have already earned it.

I looked at Chase.

His expression had done something I didn’t have a word for yet—not quite closed off, not quite surprised. Something in between, and worse for being in between.

I didn’t need him to explain.

The air in the kitchen changed—thicker, colder, heavier.

Footsteps in the hallway.

A woman appeared in the doorway—tall, blonde, effortlessly beautiful in a way that looked expensive and effortless at once. White sundress, tan skin, hair in perfect beach waves, smile bright and practiced.

“Victoria!” she said, voice warm and melodic. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to see the house.”

Victoria laughed—delighted—and pulled her into a hug.

“Brittany, you’re early! We weren’t expecting you until next week.”

“I know, I know. Surprise.” She turned, eyes sweeping the kitchen, landing on Chase.

Her smile shifted—softened, familiar, intimate.

“Hey, you,” she said.

Chase didn’t smile back.

“Hey.”

The word came out flat. Careful.

Brittany’s gaze flicked to me—curious, assessing—then back to Chase.

“Introduce me?” she asked lightly.

Chase’s jaw flexed once.

“Sloane,” he said. “My… stepsister.”

Brittany’s brows lifted slightly. “Stepsister. Right. Richard’s daughter.”

She extended a hand. Perfect manicure. Warm smile.

“Hi, Sloane. I’m Brittany. Chase’s… old friend.”

I shook her hand. Cool. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Her eyes slid back to Chase. “You didn’t tell me you had company.”

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he said.

“Surprise,” she repeated, softer this time.

Victoria clapped her hands again—bright, oblivious to the shift in temperature. “This is perfect! We were just about to order sushi. You’ll stay for lunch, of course.”

“Of course,” Brittany said. “I’d love to.”

She moved past me—close enough that her perfume brushed the air—toward Chase.

He didn’t step back.

But he didn’t step forward either.

I looked at the counter.

The inch we hadn’t closed suddenly felt like a mile.

And someone else had just stepped into the space between us.