I push myself up, crutch in hand, and limp after her because my body moves before my brain can stop it.
Sloane hears me and turns, eyes narrowing. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not,” I say automatically. “I’m…getting water.”
“You have water,” she says, pointing toward the living room, like the couch comes with a built-in hydration system.
I huff a laugh. “You’re in my way.”
Her brows shoot up. “I’m in your way? Inmykitchen?”
“InPops’skitchen,” I correct, and immediately regret it because it sounds like I’m claiming territory in a house that isn’t mine.
Sloane’s gaze sharpens, like she heard that too. “Right. Pops’s kitchen.”
Her voice isn’t cruel.
It’s guarded.
And that guard hits me in the chest harder than any insult.
I shift my weight carefully, brace creaking.
Sloane’s eyes flick to it. “How’s rehab?”
The question is casual, but I can hear the effort underneath it.
It’s her version of reaching.
I keep my voice light on purpose. “Jason’s still a sadist.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches faintly. “Good.”
I blink. “Good?”
“Yeah,” she says, then sets her glass down with a little too much force. “At least he’s doing his job.”
I stare at her for a beat. “You worried about me?”
Sloane’s eyes flash. “Don’t get cocky.”
My mouth curves. “So that’s a yes.”
Sloane’s cheeks flush. She grabs her glass again like it’s a weapon. “I’m worried about Pops.”
The shift is quick. Defensive.
I nod slowly, letting her have it. “Me too.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy in the kitchen.
It shouldn’t feel intimate. We’re literally standing next to the sink.
But it does, because last night happened. Because the air between us is still charged. Because my brain keeps replaying the way her eyes flicked to my mouth before she kissed me back.
Her eyes lift to mine for half a second, then drop again.
That tiny crack in her armor makes my chest ache.
