Somewhere with No Windows

SLOANE

“Family’s calling. Sorry I have to go now. It was nice having dinner here first.” Jake stood up, already shrugging into his coat like he’d been counting the seconds until escape.

Priya and Leah followed, murmuring polite thanks to Victoria, dodging the obligatory hugs, promising to text. Riley lingered longest. Her eyes locked on mine with the wide, horrified fascination usually reserved for train wrecks. She leaned in, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “If you survive this, I’m billing you for therapy.” Then she was gone. The front door clicked shut behind them, and the house went abruptly, dangerously quiet.

The second the latch caught, the performance snapped back into place.

I smoothed my napkin across my lap. Chase reached for the water pitcher, knuckles brushing the linen, his posture easing into that careless, armored slouch he wore like a second skin. We were Sloane and Chase again: the step-siblings who shared a roof, a last name, and absolutely nothing else.

At least, that’s what the room believed.

Under the table, my thighs trembled. The rose-gold toy pressed heavy and insistent against my clit, humming its low, secret rhythm. Every breath felt like a negotiation I was losing.

“So,” Aunt Vivian began, dabbing her lips with a napkin, “Sloane, your father tells me you’re considering a fellowship in D.C. next fall.”

I kept my voice even. “It’s just a possibility. Deadline’s not until January.”

“Ambitious,” Denise said with an approving nod. “Chase, are you looking at internships, or is hockey keeping you busy enough?”

Chase took a slow sip of water. “Hockey’s the priority. But I’m keeping my options open.” His gaze flicked to me. “Unlike some people who plan their entire lives in color-coded spreadsheets.”

I didn’t look up. “Unlike some people who treat responsibility like a suggestion.”

Victoria chuckled. “You two sound like you’re twelve again.”

“She started it,” Chase said smoothly.

“I’m responding to your provocation,” I shot back.

Dad laughed, shaking his head. “Peace treaty, kids. It’s Thanksgiving.”

The remote clicked.

The vibration hit like a live wire—sharp, rolling, dragging a gasp up my throat before I could stop it. I coughed, covering it with a quick sip of wine. My fingers dug into the table’s edge.

Chase was already talking about the Vancouver Titans’ upcoming road trip, voice calm, posture relaxed. His hand rested casually on his thigh, thumb resting over the small black remote like it belonged there. His eyes met mine over the rim of his glass.

Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe.

“Sloane?” Victoria’s voice cut through the static in my head. “You’ve gone very quiet.”

“Just full,” I managed. “The stuffing was… excellent.”

“Richard’s recipe,” Victoria said proudly. “Though I did tweak the herbs.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, too fast.

Another pulse. Longer. Deeper. My back arched before I caught myself, pressing my spine flat to the chair. Heat pooled low in my belly and spilled down my thighs. I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Crossed them again.

Chase cleared his throat. “Actually, I think it’s a little dry. Could use more butter.”

I kicked him under the table—hard.

He didn’t flinch. Just smiled at Aunt Vivian. “But that’s just my opinion.”

“You’re impossible,” I muttered.

“And you’re blushing,” he replied, soft enough that only I heard.

I wasn’t blushing. I was burning alive.

The conversation drifted—holiday travel, neighborhood gossip, Mark’s golf handicap, Priya’s upcoming interview. I nodded when expected, smiled on cue, and prayed the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Every time eyes left me, Chase’s thumb moved. Every time I thought I had control, the toy shifted, humming harder against that perfect, devastating spot, turning every casual remark into another test I was barely passing.

“So,” Denise said, turning to me, “how’s the newspaper treating you? Still running the show?”

“Yes,” I said tightly. “Wrapping up the fall issue. It’s been… busy.”

“Busy,” Chase echoed, leaning back. “That’s one word for it. She’s been surviving on black coffee and sheer spite for weeks.”

“I prefer ‘focused,’” I said.

“You prefer ‘terrifying,’” he corrected. “I’ve seen your editorial calendar. It’s color-coded. There are tabs. Sloane, you’re not running a newspaper. You’re running a military campaign.”

“At least I don’t treat my textbooks like coasters,” I shot back.

Dad chuckled. “You two really haven’t changed.”

“We’ve evolved,” Chase said. His thumb pressed down.

The vibration spiked. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My toes curled inside my boots. I gripped my fork like it was the only thing keeping me in my seat.

“Sloane, honey, are you alright?” Victoria asked, frowning with concern. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, forcing a smile that felt paper-thin. “Really. Just full. Perfectly fine.”

Chase took another bite of pie. “She’s just dramatic. Always has been.”

“And you’re insufferable,” I said, voice trembling just enough to pass for irritation. “Always have been.”

He smiled—slow, private, devastating.

Under the table, the remote clicked again. Three short bursts. Then a steady, rolling hum that blurred the edges of my vision. I pressed my knees together until my muscles burned. My breath came shallow. I stared at the grain of the wood, the smear of cranberry sauce on my plate, the way Aunt Vivian folded her napkin—anything to keep from coming apart at the seams.

“You know,” Denise mused, “it’s actually kind of sweet. The way you two bicker. Reminds me of my brother and me. We fought like cats and dogs, but we’d still drive each other to the airport at 4 a.m.”

“We don’t drive each other anywhere,” I said quickly.

“I drove her home from school yesterday,” Chase said casually.

I froze.

“Her car wouldn’t start,” he went on, shrugging. “Didn’t want her walking in the rain.”

“I had a rideshare lined up,” I muttered.

“You were standing under an awning looking like a drowned journalist,” he countered. “It was pathetic.”

“I was calculating the structural integrity of the gutter.”

“You were shivering.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“How much I wanted to throw a shoe at you.”

The table laughed. Even Dad. I forced a smile while my thighs shook and the toy kept humming, relentless, winding me tighter and tighter until I felt like a wire about to snap.

Chase’s thumb rested on the remote. He didn’t press it. Just held it there. Watching. Waiting.

Say it, his eyes dared. Say please.

I looked down at my plate. “Pass the whipped cream,” I said instead.

He handed it over. His fingers brushed mine—electric, deliberate.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured.

The vibration stopped.

The sudden silence was almost worse. My body stayed braced, muscles locked, breath caught. I exhaled slowly, like I was defusing a bomb.

“More coffee?” Victoria asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

Chase poured it, exactly how I liked it. He set the pot down, his hand lingering near mine a second too long.

“You’re welcome,” he said again, quieter.

I couldn’t answer. My hands were still shaking.

The meal finally ended. Plates cleared. Napkins folded. The comfortable post-dinner lull settled in while everyone was too full to move and too polite to leave. Victoria started gathering dishes. Dad offered to load the dishwasher. Aunt Vivian needed to check on her dog. Denise and Mark gathered their coats.

I stayed seated, legs pressed together, spine rigid, pretending my nervous system hadn’t just been run through a blender.

Chase leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. The motion pulled his sweater tight across his chest. He looked relaxed. Satisfied. Completely in control.

I hated him. I wanted him. I wanted to strangle him and kiss him and never let him out of my sight again.

“You’re quiet,” he said, low enough that only I could hear.

“I’m conserving energy,” I replied.

“For what?”

“Surviving you.”

He smiled. “You’re doing a terrible job.”

“I’m still breathing.”

“Barely.”

Victoria called from the kitchen. “Sloane, honey, could you help me with the leftovers?”

“On my way,” I called back. I pushed my chair out with legs that felt liquid and stood carefully, smoothing my top, avoiding Chase’s gaze like it was live current.

In the kitchen, Victoria handed me a stack of Tupperware. “You’ve been quiet all evening,” she said gently. “Except for the usual you-and-Chase routine. Everything alright?”

“Just tired,” I lied, stacking containers with mechanical precision. “Long week.”

“Long week,” she repeated, watching me the way only mothers can when they sense something they can’t quite name. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

“I know.” I sealed a container of stuffing. “I’m really just tired.”

She sighed softly and turned back to the sink.

I felt him before I saw him—that shift in the air that always announced Chase entering my orbit. His presence behind me was warm, solid, impossible to ignore.

“Need help?” he asked, voice casual for anyone listening.

Victoria glanced over. “Oh, Chase, that’s sweet. Actually—Richard! Can you come grab these pie plates?”

Dad appeared. “Got ’em.”

And then we were alone. Victoria was turned toward the window, checking the weather. Chase stepped close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off his chest.

His hand settled at the small of my back—light, possessive.

“You okay?” he murmured against my ear.

I gripped the counter. “Define okay.”

“Can you walk?”

“Barely.”

His breath brushed my neck. “Good.”

Victoria turned back. “Sloane, honey, why don’t you go sit down? You look exhausted. Chase, be a dear and help your sister relax.”

Sister.

The word hit like a slap and a caress at the same time.

Chase’s hand slid from my back to my hip, fingers pressing into the fabric. “Already on it.”

I escaped before my face could betray me.

The living room had emptied. I dropped onto the couch and pretended to scroll my phone while every nerve in my body screamed for release I couldn’t ask for in polite company.

Chase sat beside me.

Not touching. Close enough to feel.

“Your friends left,” he said quietly.

“I noticed.”

“They seemed concerned about you.”

“Riley has a flair for drama.”

“She knows.”

My thumb froze mid-scroll. “Knows what?”

“That something’s going on.” He leaned back, stretching one arm along the couch behind me—not touching, just there. An option. A threat. “She looked at me like she was calculating bail money.”

I set my phone down. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“She knows enough.”

Silence stretched between us, thick with everything we couldn’t say. The house hummed with distant voices, running water, the clatter of dishes. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

Underneath it all was the thing that had been building since May—the moment our parents announced their engagement and I looked at this stranger who was about to become family and felt something catastrophic lock into place.

“I need air,” I said suddenly.

His head turned. “What?”

“I need—” I stood too fast, legs unsteady. “Air. Fresh air.”

“Sloane.”

“I’m fine. Just… full. And—” I gestured at the room, at him, at everything. “This.”

He watched me for a long moment. Then he stood.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to that low register that always made my knees weak and my decisions worse. “You’ve been vibrating on the edge for two hours in front of people. You’re pale. Your hands are shaking. And you think I’m letting you wander off into the dark alone?”

“I’m going to the porch.”

“The porch has windows.”

“So?”

“So everyone can see you fall apart.” His hand closed around my elbow—firm, not rough. “If you need to breathe, I’m coming with you. Non-negotiable.”

Every logical argument died because he was right, and I hated that he was right.

“Fine,” I said through my teeth. “But we’re staying in the driveway.”

“We’ll see.”

We didn’t stay in the driveway.

The Bentley purred out of the neighborhood like a secret slipping into the night.

I hadn’t argued when he opened the passenger door. Hadn’t protested when he pulled onto the main road without asking where we were going. Hadn’t spoken for the first ten minutes because my body was still humming with leftover sensation and my brain couldn’t form a sentence that didn’t end in begging or violence.

The roads were empty. Thanksgiving night—everyone home, full, sleeping off turkey and family tension. Streetlights smeared gold across wet asphalt. The sky hung low and gray, pressing down like a lid.

“Where are we going?” I finally asked.

“Somewhere with no windows.”

“That’s ominous.”

“It’s accurate.” His hand rested on the gear shift, knuckles pale in the dashboard light. “You held it together for hours in front of people. That takes a toll.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

I looked down. I was.

“I hate that you notice things,” I muttered.

“I know.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s annoying.”

Another ten minutes passed. The suburbs thinned. Trees closed in. The road began to climb.

I recognized the route just before we arrived.

Miller’s Overlook. The makeout point. The place where half of Eastlake High had lost their virginity in back seats and the other half had pretended they were too good for it.

Chase pulled into the empty gravel lot and killed the engine.

Darkness swallowed us whole. No other cars. No streetlights. Just the faint silver glow of a cloud-covered moon and the distant sparkle of town lights far below.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he turned to me.

“Come here.”