Thin Walls

SLOANE

Dinner had been a declaration of war.

Now I was dragging my suitcases up the curved staircase to the second floor, Victoria trailing behind with apologies about “the best room available” and promises of “plenty of space for everyone.”

The hallway stretched long and quiet, cream walls, dark wood floors, soft recessed lighting that made everything feel expensive and sterile.

She stopped at the far end. “This one’s yours, Sloane. And Chase’s is right next door.”

Of course it was.

I pushed the door open.

Massive bed with crisp white linens. Plush cream carpet. Floor-to-ceiling window framing a moonlit lake that looked Photoshopped. Chandelier dripping crystals. A sitting area with velvet armchairs. Walk-in closet bigger than my old bedroom.

It should’ve felt like luxury.

Instead it felt like a cage dressed in silk.

I dropped my bags and stepped back into the hall just as Chase appeared at the opposite end, fresh from the shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping onto bare shoulders.

He froze when he saw me.

Then his eyes flicked to my door. To his. Back again.

“Seriously?” His voice was flat irritation. “Right next to me?”

I crossed my arms. “Blame your mom. She’s the interior decorator of family bonding.”

He leaned one shoulder against his doorframe, towel dangerously low, smirk sliding into place. “Thin walls.”

The words landed like a warning shot.

I stared. “Meaning?”

He pushed off the frame and took two slow steps closer. Voice dropped. “Meaning you’re gonna hear things.”

Heat crawled up my throat before I could kill it.

“Excuse me?”

Chase’s smirk turned lazy, satisfied. Like he’d already scored. “Just being neighborly. Wouldn’t want you shocked when the headboard starts talking.”

My pulse kicked hard—anger, mostly. Mostly.

I stepped forward, closing the gap until I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes. “You think I’m going to lose sleep over your mediocre hookups? Newsflash: I’ve heard worse through the walls of my own house for years. Your dad’s parade was louder.”

His brows lifted. Surprise flickered, then vanished behind that infuriating grin.

“Wow,” he said softly. “You really don’t pull punches.”

“Why would I? You’ve been peacocking since the second you walked into dinner shirtless. Now you’re trying to weaponize your sex life like it’s some kind of power move. Predictable doesn’t even cover it.”

Something shifted in his expression—amusement sharpening into focus. He leaned in just enough that I could smell cedar and clean skin.

“You think you’ve got me figured out from stats and one dinner?”

“I’ve got enough.”

“You’ve got surface. That’s not the same.”

I tilted my head. “What else is there? Your charming personality? Your six-pack? Your NHL dreams? Spare me.”

His jaw flexed. For a heartbeat I thought the mask might crack—anger, real anger.

But then he smiled again. Slow. Dangerous. Predatory.

“You’re going to be a fucking problem, aren’t you?”

“Only if you keep standing in my way.”

His gaze dropped—brief, deliberate—to my mouth. Then back up.

My stomach flipped. Traitor.

He stepped back first. “Bathroom’s shared. Jack-and-Jill. Try not to hog the hot water. Some of us have ice time at six.”

I blinked. “Shared?”

He jerked his chin toward the door I hadn’t noticed—right between our rooms.

“Yep. Mom’s big on ‘togetherness.’”

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Of course she is.”

“Welcome to the fun, princess.”

I turned on my heel, slammed my door, and locked it for good measure.

Three months.

I could survive three months.

---

Unpacking was mechanical: jeans folded, tees hung, books stacked, laptop on the desk. Mom’s scarf—the soft gray cashmere she’d worn on me the day of the accident—draped over the chair like a talisman.

Halfway through hanging a dress I’d probably never wear, music exploded through the wall.

Bass-heavy. Obnoxious. Lyrics about stacks, ass, and being untouchable.

I froze, hanger mid-air.

*You have got to be kidding.*

The beat thumped like a heartbeat on steroids.

I set the hanger down. Marched through the connecting bathroom. Yanked his door open.

Chase was sprawled on his bed, one arm behind his head, phone in hand, still shirtless, still in those goddamn gray sweatpants. Speaker on the dresser pumping volume like a challenge.

He didn’t even glance up.

I retreated, grabbed an armful of wooden hangers from my closet, and came back.

First one sailed straight at his smug face.

It cracked against his forehead.

He jerked upright. “What the fu—”

Second one caught him square in the mouth.

Third and fourth peppered his chest and shoulder as he started dodging.

“Are you insane?” he barked, rolling to avoid the fifth.

I cracked my neck. “Turn. It. Off.”

He lunged for the speaker, killed the music mid-drop.

Silence rang.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he breathed, half-laughing, half-pissed.

I still had two hangers left.

I took aim at those ridiculous abs.

First one knocked the phone from his hand.

Second sent the speaker crashing off the dresser edge.

He hissed, clutching his side. “Fuck!”

I dusted my palms like I’d just won a face-off.

“Twelve hangers down,” I said calmly. “Worth it.”

His eyes narrowed, veins standing out on his forearms. “You’re gonna regret that.”

I was already backing out. “Try me.”

Door shut. Locked.

I exhaled.

Then smiled.

---

11:46 p.m.

The room was too quiet. Too soft. Too wrong.

I scrolled TikTok on my phone, mindless noise to drown the unfamiliarity.

Then I heard her.

Female. Breathy. Giggling turning into gasps.

A thud against the wall—my wall.

The bed creaked. Slow at first. Then rhythmic. Purposeful.

His voice cut through—low, rough, edged with control.

More gasps. Higher. Needier.

The pace picked up. Brutal. Possessive.

Words I didn’t want to hear. Her broken pleas. His growled responses.

I shot upright, heart slamming.

Earbuds. Where the hell—

Found them. Under the nightstand.

Fingers shaking, I jammed them in, opened Spotify, hit Taylor Swift on shuffle.

But before the first note, the sounds sharpened.

Headboard thumping now. Relentless.

Her cry—sharp, desperate.

His voice, clear as a blade through the drywall:

“Come on, baby… louder.”

Then, deliberate, mocking, just for me:

“Thin walls.”

Motherfucker.

I cranked the volume until my eardrums ached.

But even over the music, I could still feel the rhythm vibrating through the mattress.

I hated him.

I hated this house.

I hated that my body remembered exactly what that growl sounded like up close.

And most of all, I hated that a tiny, traitorous part of me wondered what it would feel like to be the one making him lose control like that.

I buried my face in the pillow and screamed silently into it.

Three months.

Three fucking months.

This wasn’t going to be survivable.

This was going to be torture.

And Chase Hartley had just lit the match.