By the time the apartment started to feel like night, Cody was already gone.
Not gone in a dramatic way. Not gone in a lonely way. Just gone in the way he disappeared into something he loved — into the buzz of the Moda Center, the black jersey, the Portland Fire crowd, the bright court lights, the kind of night where his phone would go quiet for twenty minutes at a time because he was too locked in to check it.
Sloane knew that rhythm by now.
She knew the difference between Cody being distant and Cody being absorbed.
This was absorbed.
His shoes had been by the door earlier. His hat had been on the back of the chair. His charger had been left half-unplugged beside the couch like he had meant to take it and forgot. There was still the faint smell of his cologne in the entryway, mixed with rain on fabric and that clean cotton smell his hoodies always carried when they came fresh out of the dryer.
Mila noticed it first.
“He left his charger.”
Sloane looked up from the kitchen counter, where she was slicing scallions with the kind of calm precision that made it seem like the cutting board had personally agreed to behave.
“Of course he did.”
Mila picked it up, dangled it between two fingers, and smiled.
“He’s gonna hit twelve percent during the fourth quarter and act like the city abandoned him.”
Sloane’s mouth twitched.
“He’ll survive.”
But she still glanced at the door.
Not worried. Not exactly.
Just aware of the shape of him missing from the apartment.
That was the thing about Cody. He didn’t have to be loud to take up space. Even when he was quiet, even when he was just sitting on the couch scrolling, even when he was half-asleep with one hand under the blanket and the other still holding his phone, the room arranged itself around him.
With him gone, the apartment had a different sound.
The hum of the refrigerator was louder. The little click of the burner lighting under the pan felt sharper. Rain whispered against the windows in soft bursts, not heavy enough to be a storm, but steady enough to make Portland feel like it had leaned its forehead against the glass.
Mila had changed into soft gray shorts and one of Cody’s oversized shirts, the one she always swore she wasn’t stealing even though it had slowly become hers by law of repeated possession. Her hair was clipped up messily, a few blonde pieces falling around her face. She moved barefoot through the kitchen, opening cabinets and forgetting what she was looking for, then remembering, then opening the wrong one again anyway.
Sloane watched her do it for a second.
“You need a job.”
“I have one.”
“A kitchen job.”
“I’m emotional support staff.”
“You are standing directly in front of the bowls.”
Mila looked down, saw the cabinet handle against her thigh, and grinned.
“Oh. Good. I found them.”
Dinner was simple because neither of them had wanted to perform for an empty seat.
Rice bowls. Chicken crisped in a pan with garlic and sesame oil. Cucumbers sliced thin. Avocado. A little chili crunch Mila had been adding to everything lately with dangerous confidence. Sloane made the sauce because Mila’s version always became either soup or punishment.
The apartment filled slowly with warmth.
Garlic first. Then toasted sesame. Then the faint sweetness of rice steam. The kitchen window fogged slightly at the corners, and Mila wiped a little half-moon into it with her fingertip before immediately regretting it because now the window looked smudged.
From the living room, the Apple TV screensaver drifted lazily through cityscapes and oceans and desert roads. Every now and then, the room dimmed blue, then gold, then black, depending on what image passed across the screen.
Sloane’s phone buzzed once on the counter.
She looked down.
Cody: this crowd is LOUD lol
Cody: sarah is cold blooded in person
Cody: like actually ridiculous
Mila leaned over her shoulder before asking permission.
“Is he talking about Sarah Ashlee Barker?”
Sloane turned the phone slightly away, not because Mila couldn’t see, but because Sloane liked pretending she had boundaries stricter than she actually did.
“He is.”
Mila made a soft, knowing sound.
“Oh he’s happy happy.”
Sloane typed back with one thumb.
Sloane: Try to keep breathing.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then nothing.
Mila laughed.
“He’s watching the game. You lost him.”
Sloane set the phone face down.
“I accept my defeat.”
They ate on the couch instead of at the table.
Mila sat cross-legged with a blanket tucked under her knees, balancing her bowl carefully like she had entered a private negotiation with gravity. Sloane sat at the other end, legs folded sideways, one socked foot tucked beneath her. She ate slowly, thoughtfully, as if each bite had to pass inspection before she trusted it.
The apartment settled around them.
Fork against ceramic. Rain against window. The low fan of the heater coming on, then shutting off. A car passing outside with wet tires dragging softly over the street. Somewhere upstairs, a chair scraped. Someone laughed once in the hallway and then disappeared behind a closing door.
Mila checked her phone every few minutes, not because she was waiting for Cody exactly, but because Cody at a game created a little invisible thread through the night.
A text might come. A photo. A blurry video. Some ridiculous all-caps reaction.
Eventually one did.
Her phone lit up against the blanket.
Cody: SHE IS HIM
Cody: I’m sorry but she is
Mila covered her mouth, laughing before she even unlocked it.
“Sloane.”
“What.”
“He said Sarah is him.”
Sloane closed her eyes for half a second.
“That sounds medically concerning.”
“He’s so excited.”
“He’s twelve.”
“He’s cute.”
Sloane opened one eye.
“He is occasionally tolerable.”
Mila smiled into her bowl.
That was Sloane’s version of agreement.
After dinner, they cleaned without fully deciding to clean.
Mila rinsed bowls. Sloane loaded the dishwasher. Mila wiped the counter in wide lazy circles that missed several visible spots. Sloane silently came behind her and fixed them. The chili crunch jar got put away, then pulled back out, then put away again because Mila wanted “one more little taste” and Sloane said absolutely not with the exhausted authority of someone who knew she would be ignored.
The whole time, the game stayed in the background like a pulse they weren’t fully listening to yet.
They had turned it on sometime in the third quarter, more out of loyalty than sports commitment. The broadcast sound came low through the TV speakers, announcers rising and falling, sneaker squeaks cutting through, the occasional swell of the crowd making both of them look up from whatever they were doing.
Sloane didn’t care about basketball the way Cody cared about basketball.
She cared about Cody caring.
That was different.
That was why she noticed the score. Why she noticed the clock. Why she noticed when the game tightened and the crowd sound shifted into something sharper, more electric. She stood behind the couch with her arms folded, still holding a dish towel in one hand, watching the possession unfold like she had accidentally stepped into tension.
Mila came out of the kitchen with damp hands.
“Is it close?”
“Very.”
“Is Sarah in?”
Sloane nodded toward the screen.
Mila came around the couch, eyes immediately searching for the familiar number, the familiar movement, the player Cody had been talking about for weeks like he had personally discovered her.
The apartment, which had been soft all night, changed.
Suddenly everything felt alert.
The TV glow flashed across Sloane’s glasses. Mila leaned forward with both hands on the back of the couch. The announcer’s voice lifted. The crowd became a wall of sound even through the speakers.
Then it happened.
The shot.
The make.
The game winner.
For half a second, neither of them reacted because the moment had to arrive inside them first.
Then Mila gasped so loudly it was almost a scream.
“Oh my God.”
Sloane’s eyebrows shot up.
“Well.”
The arena exploded on the screen.
Players rushed together. The camera shook. The announcers lost their clean broadcast voices and became part of the noise. Fans jumped in the background, arms up, faces wide open, strangers becoming one ecstatic organism under the lights.
Mila grabbed Sloane’s arm.
“He is going to lose his mind.”
Sloane was already reaching for her phone.
Before she could type, Cody’s name appeared.
Cody:
Cody:
Cody: OH MY GOD
Cody: OH MY GOD
Cody: SARAH
Cody: FUCKING
Cody: ASHLEE
Cody: BARKER
Mila fell sideways onto the couch laughing.
Sloane tried not to smile and failed.
Another message came in.
Cody: I JUST SAW THAT LIVE
Cody: I WAS HERE FOR THAT
Cody: I WAS IN THE BUILDING
Mila pressed a pillow to her face, muffling her laugh.
“He’s never coming down from this.”
Sloane typed:
Sloane: We saw it.
Sloane: You’re alive, somehow.
Cody replied instantly this time.
Cody: BARELY
Cody: TELL MILA SHE HIT THAT SHIT
Mila snatched the phone.
Mila: I SAW IT!!!
Mila: you looked very proud on behalf of the entire city probably
Cody sent back a blurry photo of the court, all lights and bodies and motion, completely unusable as a photograph and perfect as evidence of joy.
Mila stared at it for a second longer than necessary.
Not because the picture was good.
Because it was Cody’s happiness caught mid-shake.
By the time the broadcast ended, the apartment felt different again. The game had left a residue behind — the good kind, the buzzing kind. Mila was restless now, still giggling at Cody’s texts, still replaying the shot in her head. Sloane turned off the TV and the sudden silence landed heavy.
Outside, the rain had thinned into a mist.
The windows reflected them back faintly: Mila on the couch, cheeks pink from laughing, hair falling loose from its clip; Sloane standing near the TV with the remote in her hand, dark sweater hanging off one shoulder, glasses catching one small lamp reflection.
“He’s going to come home loud,” Mila said.
“He’ll try to be quiet.”
“That’s worse.”
Sloane nodded.
“He’ll whisper at full volume.”
So they waited for him in the way people wait when they are pretending not to wait.
Mila brushed her teeth, then wandered back into the living room instead of going to bed. Sloane changed into sleep shorts and a black tank, then folded the blanket on the couch with unnecessary care. Mila lit the little amber candle on the coffee table even though Sloane said it was too late to light a candle.
“It smells cozy,” Mila said.
“It smells like you are creating a fire hazard at 11:48.”
“It’s supervised.”
“You are not supervision.”
“I’m ambiance.”
The candle made the room warmer than it needed to be. Its scent spread slowly — vanilla, cedar, something smoky underneath. It mixed with the faint leftover garlic from dinner and the clean laundry smell from the blanket, creating the exact kind of home smell that never came from a bottle even when bottles claimed otherwise.
Cody texted again.
Cody: leaving now
Cody: traffic is stupid
Cody: still worth it
Cody: that was insane
Mila sent back a heart.
Sloane sent back:
Sloane: Drive like someone wants you home.
There was a longer pause.
Then:
Cody: yes ma’am
Sloane stared at that for a second, expression unreadable.
Mila noticed.
“You liked that.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I liked that he acknowledged basic safety.”
“You liked the ‘ma’am.’”
Sloane turned off the candle.
“Go to bed.”
Mila smiled sweetly.
“Make me.”
That sentence changed the air more than either of them admitted.
Not dramatically. Not suddenly. Just a subtle shift. A softening at the edges. Sloane looked at her, really looked, and Mila’s smile became smaller, less joking. The apartment was quiet except for the rain ticking lightly against the window and the little electric hum from the kitchen.
Sloane crossed the room slowly.
Mila stayed where she was, sitting on the arm of the couch now, bare feet on the cushion, Cody’s shirt slipping off one shoulder.
Sloane stopped in front of her.
“You are impossible tonight.”
Mila tilted her chin up.
“You like me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“You love me.”
Sloane’s face softened before she could stop it.
“Yes.”
The word landed quietly.
Mila’s teasing disappeared.
Sloane touched her cheek with the backs of her fingers first, like she was testing whether the moment was real enough to hold. Mila leaned into it immediately, eyes closing for half a breath. When Sloane kissed her, it was slow and familiar, but not casual. Nothing about it felt accidental. It had the patience of a night that had been moving toward tenderness from the start.
Mila’s hand found Sloane’s waist.
Sloane’s fingers slipped into Mila’s hair, loosening the clip the rest of the way. Blonde strands fell around Mila’s face, and she laughed softly against Sloane’s mouth.
“You ruined my hair.”
“It was already doing whatever it wanted.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
They were still close when Cody’s key finally turned in the lock.
Both of them froze for one ridiculous second like teenagers caught somewhere they had every right to be.
Then the door opened carefully.
Cody stepped in trying to be quiet and failing immediately because the deadbolt clicked too loudly, his keys jingled, and his shoe squeaked once against the entry mat.
“Sorry,” he whispered at a volume appropriate for a small press conference. “I’m being quiet.”
Mila burst out laughing.
Sloane looked over her shoulder.
“You are not.”
He stood there in the entryway, damp from the mist, cheeks still flushed from the cold and the night and the game. His Portland Fire hat sat low on his head. His hoodie was half-zipped. His eyes were bright in that way they got when he had been part of something bigger than himself and had brought the whole thing home inside his chest.
He looked at them.
Then at the couch.
Then back at them.
A slow grin started.
“Oh.”
Mila pointed at him.
“Don’t ‘oh’ us. Sarah Ashlee Barker hit a game winner. We had emotions.”
Cody dropped his keys in the dish by the door.
“I had emotions.”
“We know,” Sloane said.
“You texted like a man being chased,” Mila added.
Cody kicked off his shoes and came into the living room, still carrying the outside with him — rain, arena air, the faint metallic smell of night traffic, cold fabric warming up as he moved inside.
He started talking immediately.
Not because he meant to overwhelm them.
Because the joy had nowhere else to go.
He told them about the crowd, about the noise, about the way the possession looked from his seat, about how the whole building seemed to inhale before the shot. He acted out the moment with his hands. He repeated himself twice. He said “you don’t understand” at least three times to two women who absolutely understood the part that mattered.
Mila watched him from the couch with her chin tucked into her hand, smiling like his happiness was its own show.
Sloane leaned against the wall with her arms folded, pretending to be less charmed than she was.
At some point Cody finally slowed down.
The apartment received him fully then.
His voice dropped. The adrenaline started to leave his shoulders. He pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Mila got up and took the hat from him, setting it on the table with a little care. Sloane reached for the zipper of his hoodie and tugged it down because he had stopped halfway and apparently forgotten how clothes worked.
“You’re still buzzing,” she said.
“I know.”
“You need water.”
“I need to watch the replay.”
“You need water first.”
He looked at Mila for help.
Mila shook her head.
“She’s right.”
“Betrayal.”
“Hydration betrayal.”
Sloane brought him water. He drank half of it standing in the kitchen, still scrolling through clips on his phone, thumb moving too fast, face lighting up every time he found another angle of the shot.
The notifications kept coming.
A group chat. A sports app alert. A post from the team. Someone tagging him. Someone sending the clip. Someone saying, BRO YOU WERE THERE.
His phone buzzed and buzzed against the counter until Sloane turned it face down with one finger.
“Enough.”
Cody looked at it, then at her.
“Yes ma’am.”
Mila made a sound from the doorway.
Sloane did not look at her.
“Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made punctuation.”
Mila smiled.
The night moved toward bed in pieces.
The candle was out, but the room still held its scent. The dishes were done. The TV was dark. The rain had nearly stopped. Portland outside looked slick and quiet, streetlights melting across the pavement, the occasional car passing like a thought that didn’t want to interrupt.
Cody brushed his teeth while still trying to explain the final play through the bathroom door.
Mila sat on the edge of the bed, laughing into her hands.
Sloane stood at the sink beside him, washing her face with the composed patience of a woman who had accepted that she loved someone ridiculous.
When they finally ended up in the bedroom, the energy changed again.
Not into sleep immediately.
Into closeness.
Cody was tired now, but not empty. The night had left him open. Mila crawled under the covers first, taking the middle without asking because she often did things like that when she wanted to be held and didn’t feel like filing the paperwork. Sloane turned off the bedside lamp, leaving only the low gray-blue light from the city outside. Cody climbed in last, careful and warm, his body still carrying the last trace of cold from outside.
For a while, nobody said much.
Mila’s foot brushed against Sloane’s leg under the blanket.
Cody’s hand rested at Mila’s waist, then reached past her for Sloane’s fingers.
Sloane let him find them.
The room was quiet enough to hear breathing.
Not performative breathing. Not cinematic. Just real. Three different rhythms slowly learning the same pace.
Mila turned her face toward Cody.
“I’m glad you got to see it.”
He smiled in the dark.
“Me too.”
“She knew you’d lose your mind,” Sloane said.
“I did not lose my mind.”
Both women were silent.
Cody sighed.
“I lost my mind a normal amount.”
Mila laughed softly and pressed her forehead to his shoulder.
Sloane’s thumb moved once across the back of his hand.
That was the part he would remember later, even more than he expected.
Not just the shot.
Not just the crowd.
This too.
Coming home to the apartment warm. To the girls still awake. To dinner lingering in the air. To Mila laughing at his texts. To Sloane pretending not to be amused and then holding his hand in the dark like she had been waiting for it.
The intimacy of the night wasn’t just what happened under the blanket.
It was the way Mila shifted closer without asking.
The way Sloane’s guard came down by degrees.
The way Cody’s excitement softened into gratitude once he was finally home.
A kiss found its way through the dark. Then another. Quiet, unhurried, wrapped in the tired sweetness of a long day ending exactly where it wanted to. Mila’s laugh faded into a breath. Sloane murmured something too low to make out. Cody answered with his hand, with his forehead, with the kind of careful attention that belonged only to rooms where nobody needed to explain themselves.
Outside, the city kept shining wet and soft.
Inside, the apartment went still.
By the time they finally slept, Cody’s phone was face down on the nightstand, battery low, notifications muted, the last unread messages stacked quietly beneath the glass.
The game was over.
The night was over.
Sarah Ashlee Barker had hit the shot.
Cody had seen it live.
And at home, in the dark, with dinner cleaned up and rain drying on the windows, Sloane and Mila had made sure the best part of his night had somewhere warm to land.
