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She grew quiet. Two days later, she told the client future rush changes would require an additional fee. They paid it.

She called me immediately. “I charged them.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

“Should have been fifty, but I’m really proud of you.”

“I knew you would be.”

Every small change tied us closer. Coffee at the café. Movies with my brothers. Walks near the river. Late-night calls where Sloane fell asleep halfway through explaining a design problem, leaving me listening to the rhythm of her breathing until I finally ended the call.

She began visiting the pack without needing a major event. Sometimes she came for Sunday dinner. Sometimes Patty brought her over for an afternoon and she stayed through evening.

Caldwell stopped asking when she would return because he had begun trusting that she would.

One night, we were sitting on my porch with bowls of ice cream. Sloane had spent the afternoon helping Patty photograph new art prints for her online store. She wore leggings, one of my sweatshirts, and her hair in a messy top knot.

The sweatshirt had become hers without discussion. I had noticed it missing from my apartment. Then it appeared in a photograph she sent three days later.

I didn’t ask for it back.

She rested both feet on the porch railing. “I think Trevor is going to sell those mushroom earrings,” she said.

“He’ll sell five pairs, buy supplies for two hundred, then decide to make lamps.”

She laughed and nudged her knee against mine.

Her heart rate remained slow and calm. Mine, however, changed whenever she touched me.

I’d started tracking those details without intention. The cadence of her breathing when she was relaxed. The way she became quieter before checking her phone if her parents called. I knew the small crease between her brows meant she was considering whether to tell the truth or offer the easier answer.

I knew she preferred the corner piece of brownies and the center slice of cake.

I knew she took her coffee sweet but pretended to appreciate bitterness because she believed adults should.

I knew she sang while baking and danced badly when she thought nobody watched.

I knew she cared about Caldwell without treating him as fragile.

I knew she could make my mother laugh, disarm Julie with one compliment, and survive Aunt Karen’s questions by becoming increasingly specific until Karen lost interest.

Every week gave me more.

Every week made it harder to call the feeling anything else.

I didn’t tell Sloane. Not yet.

Love felt too large to place between us while we were still learning how to protect Thursday evenings and admit disappointment. I’d spent most of my life moving toward responsibility before asking myself whether I was ready.

This time, I wanted to let something grow without forcing it into duty.

Still, I knew.

I knew when she walked into the hall and my attention found her before anyone else.

I knew when I turned down requests because I had plans with her and didn’t feel guilty afterward.