The clock showed 2 a.m. The suite was dark, lit only by the dim, filtered glow of the streetlamps through a gap in the curtains. The wall clock ticked softly, marking each minute as if everything else had stopped.
Sloane wasn't asleep. She wasn't even trying anymore. Her shoulder throbbed. Her body was supposed to be resting—but every cell still carried the imprint of the day. The training, the strain, the tension, the control... all of it pulsed in her muscles, as if even her bones didn't know how to shut off.
She slid quietly out of bed. Pulled on a long, sleeveless grey top and soft, dark sweatpants, then stepped barefoot into the hallway. On the corner of the couch in the living room, a splint was already prepared, along with a few elastic straps, cold gel, soothing cream, and a cloth sling she could've used—if she'd been able to do it alone.
She sat down in front of the coffee table, not switching on the light. The streetlamps gave just enough. She took one strap between her teeth, tried to position the splint under her arm with her right hand, but the pressure on her shoulder made her gasp involuntarily. She didn't even attempt to use the cream.
She sat hunched, tilted to one side, her face tense—not from pain, but from helplessness. Needing help had never fit into her version of professionalism. But now... the only hand that could've helped her was the one that wouldn't move.
That's when the hallway door opened. Footsteps. Bare, quiet ones on the floor. A moment later, Lennox appeared in the doorway—shirtless, wearing only dark pants, hair messily brushed back. In the shadows, he almost blended into the background—but his eyes gleamed when he saw her. He stared for a while. Said nothing.
"You're not sleeping either?" he asked quietly.
Sloane didn't fully turn around. Her voice was barely audible.
"I tried."
Lennox stepped closer. He didn't ask what she was doing. Didn't comment on her shoulder, the splints, or the cream. He just walked up to her. Slowly, deliberately. Like he'd been preparing for this moment for a long time.
"Not working?" he asked softly, now standing behind her. Sloane looked up. Their eyes met—and this time, there was no anger, no defense. Just a tired, tense look, with an unspoken sentence behind it: I can't do this alone, and I hate that I can't.
Lennox crouched down beside her without asking for permission.
"Let me see."
Sloane hesitated for a second. Then slowly lowered her arm—and let him. Lennox picked up the soothing cream first. He squeezed some onto his finger, then gently touched the edge of her shoulder. Her skin was warm, the muscles beneath it tight. His movements were slow, careful—no aggression, no unnecessary force. Just quiet attention.
"Tell me if it hurts," he murmured as his fingertips slowly spread the cream along the tense arc. His palm was soft, and through his touch, it was clear every movement was intentional.
"It's fine," Sloane whispered. "Keep going."
Lennox continued, working across the whole shoulder curve until the cream had disappeared. Then he took the strap and with two precise motions, secured the splint. He lifted her arm underneath, and finally prepared the sling.
"Want me to tie it?"
Sloane nodded. And for the first time, she wasn't the one in control. The man slowly, almost ceremoniously, threaded the fabric under her arm, tied it behind her neck, careful not to pull too tightly. When the knot was done, he didn't move his hand away immediately. He kept it there. On her shoulder.
"Like this okay?"
Sloane looked up at him. Her eyes were tired. But clear.
"Yes. Thank you."
For a moment, they just looked at each other. The silence wasn't awkward. Just deep. Breath matched in rhythm—wordless trust. Then Lennox stood up.
"Sleep," he said softly. "You can rest now."
Sloane nodded. And when he left her, the strongest feeling in her body wasn't pain anymore. It was something else. Something that didn't pull her back—but stood beside her.
---
Lennox wasn't the type to wake to an alarm. His internal clock had long ago decided it followed only one rhythm: survival. But this morning... he woke earlier anyway. The room was dim, soft light casting shadows across the walls. His first thought wasn't training. Not the ring. Not the schedule.
It was Sloane.
The woman who had sat on the living room floor before dawn, quietly, hunched over, struggling to brace her arm with one hand. The woman who'd let him touch her. No—allowed him. That wouldn't just fade away.
He sat up and walked into the hallway. The suite was quiet, the soft hum of the AC the only sound. He padded barefoot into the kitchen, where everything was untouched. On the counter: some prepped boxes—fresh vegetables, eggs, rye bread, a portion of oats soaked the night before. Everything in its usual place. Precise. Just like Sloane.
But today, she wouldn't be the first to touch them.
Lennox paused for a moment. His hand rested on the counter, eyes scanning the ingredients. He exhaled quietly. This wasn't something he was used to. But he was good with movement—and attention. And yesterday, he'd paid attention.
He rolled up his sleeves, opened the fridge, took out the eggs, and got to work. Slowly, carefully—the movements were still a bit clumsy, but each step carried intention: Don't break things. Help.
After a while, the eggs sizzled softly in the pan, bread toasted beside them, and the oats warmed in a pot, with a splash of almond milk, a pinch of cinnamon, and some crushed walnuts.
It wasn't a big deal. Just breakfast.
But for Lennox Graves, it was the first gesture he'd made that wasn't driven by guilt, anger, or instruction. Just... his own will.
Then he heard footsteps in the hallway. Sloane's slow, soft gait was easy to recognize. Her movements already carried fatigue, and when she appeared in the doorway—hair tousled, in a simple light gray long-sleeve and dark leggings—surprise instantly crossed her face. She paused, like she wasn't sure if she was dreaming.
"You... you're here?"
Lennox turned slightly over his shoulder and nodded.
"Figured it was time I got up first for once."
Sloane tilted her head. Her gaze was alert—but not defensive. More... attentive.
"And... what are you doing?"
"Trying not to blow up the kitchen," Lennox replied, retrieving the toast. "And... maybe helping."
Sloane stepped closer slowly. Her left arm still in the sling, her movement careful—but no longer tense.
"You didn't have to. I could've..."
"I know you could've," Lennox cut in. "But... today, you didn't have to."
The woman smiled. Not wide—just enough to soften the edges of her face.
"Is it going to be edible?"
"No idea," Lennox said honestly. "But if not, you can take back the lead. Until then... let me try."
And Sloane... sat down at the table. For the first time. And said nothing.
Just watched someone else take care of her.
The eggs sizzled, the oats bubbled softly, and Lennox stirred the spoon with focused uncertainty. His movements weren't clumsy—just overly careful. Like someone trying to do good while terrified of failing.
Sloane sat at the table, resting her arm in the sling, watching from there.
"Add a bit more almond milk to the oats," she said quietly, but firmly. "About a quarter cup. Otherwise they'll stick."
Lennox nodded, grabbed the carton, poured, and kept stirring. He glanced at the eggs—but Sloane was already speaking:
"Don't flip them too soon. Wait until the top firms up slightly. Then it'll hold. Otherwise, it tears."
"You talk like you're giving a military briefing," Lennox muttered, but followed the advice. "Is this breakfast or an operation?"
"Both," she replied dryly. "Cooking is like training. Timing matters. Texture matters. Balance between strength and precision matters. And above all: don't do it blindly."
Lennox snorted, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth was real.
"Sounds a lot like you're talking about me."
"Maybe," Sloane said, not confirming it.
The oats thickened, filling the kitchen with their scent. Lennox lifted the spoon, tilted the pot slightly, and glanced at her questioningly.
"Is it supposed to look like this?"
"It's supposed to look like that," she corrected gently. "Now add a handful of crushed walnuts and a pinch of cinnamon. Second and fourth jar, right-hand side."
Lennox obediently stepped over, found them, and added the ingredients. His movements were smoother now. No tremble, no hesitation. Not because he suddenly knew how to cook—but because her voice... gave him direction.
"Good. Now take it off the heat and let it sit for two minutes," Sloane instructed.
"And the eggs?"
"Now flip them. One motion, no hesitation."
Lennox complied. The eggs were just crisped at the bottom, and flipped over in one soft move. He looked up briefly, almost waiting for a verdict. Sloane nodded slowly.
"Acceptable."
"That's almost praise from you," Lennox noted.
"Don't get used to it," she replied—but there was something in her gaze that hadn't been there yesterday. A hint of playfulness. A different kind of trust.
Lennox served. Carefully, but deliberately. He set the plates down and sat across from her.
They looked at each other for a moment. The usual dynamic—command and resistance, instruction and defiance—had shifted. It wasn't intimate. Not sentimental. But for the first time, the question wasn't who's in control—but how do we work together. And it was the first morning where not just nutrients were on the table—but a new level of attention.
They ate slowly. Not out of urgency, but in that strange, quiet pace that only comes on mornings when something is about to change—though no one knows it yet.
Lennox ate. No rushing, no crumbs, no grimacing. Sloane, though slower with one hand, carefully spooned the oats. Neither spoke—but the silence was no longer sharp. More like... unpatrolled ground. A quiet space no longer under threat.
Then the door opened. Familiar steps and keys jingling from the hallway. Marcus walked in, gym bag slung over one shoulder, phone in hand, his face a shade paler than usual. He paused in the doorway as he saw them at the breakfast table. Surprise flickered.
"You cooked?" he asked Lennox, suspiciously.
"Maybe," the man replied. "And we're still alive."
Marcus huffed, but the smile on his face only lasted a second. Then he glanced at his phone again, stepping closer, voice more serious.
"Just got an email. Updated tournament schedule. The tour... got moved up."
Sloane lowered her spoon. Lennox looked up.
"By how much?"
Marcus glanced at the screen, then back at Sloane.
"Three days."
Silence. Not the peaceful kind—but the kind that waits for reaction. Sloane just nodded at first. Her shoulder tensed. Her thoughts immediately scattered: recovery protocol, adjusted load schedule, anti-inflammatory timing, travel stress... She recalculated everything she'd been managing in a single second.
Lennox leaned back, jaw tightening.
"You sure?" he asked quietly. Marcus nodded.
"Organizers changed the dates. No other slots for the opening match. Madrid, three days from now. That's the launch point."
"What about phase two of the prep plan?" Sloane asked, already in professional mode.
"It's off. The hotel gym won't support full strength training. We can only do maintenance there. Whatever you want—fit it in now," Marcus said tensely. "I know it's not ideal. But there's no other option."
Sloane stayed quiet for a while. Her left hand instinctively shifted near the sling, like she was testing what she still had. Then she looked back at Lennox.
"Then we re-plan this afternoon," she said softly. "We'll get it done. But no improvising. No self-imposed pushing. Today your body needs protection and performance."
Lennox just nodded. No arguing. No growling. But his expression darkened.
Three days... too little to fix everything.
Marcus was still standing there, then with a sigh, placed his phone on the edge of the table.
"I'll take care of logistics this morning. We'll meet in the gym this afternoon. In the meantime, think about what else you need. Sloane—if you need extra equipment, meds, cryotherapy—anything—let me know."
"I'll make a list," she said quietly.
Lennox took one last sip from his glass, then let his gaze linger on Sloane's face. Her eyes weren't calm anymore. But they weren't afraid either. Just ready.
For the first time... they were counting on each other.
And that was worth more than three extra days.