“I’m here, man,” I say quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Cameron nods once like he’s trying to believe it. “Good.”
He grabs the dish towel and starts wiping down the counter, even though it’s already clean. Something to do with his hands. Something to control.
“Always,” I manage.
Cameron nods like that’s enough. Then he sets the towel down and jerks his chin toward the living room. “I’m gonna check on Pops.”
“Yeah,” I say.
As he walks away, my stomach twists again, because I can feel it—the inevitable moment when Cameron finds out about the kiss.
And I can’t decide what scares me more:
Cameron’s anger…
Or his disappointment.
—
Dinner is…awkward.
Cameron makes pasta because that’s his default comfort food, and Pops eats a few bites with a faint smile like he’s trying, and Sloane appears long enough to sit at the table but not long enough to be present.
She doesn’t look at me.
I don’t push.
We talk about nothing—basketball schedules, Cameron’s class, a stupid sports commentator Pops hates.
It’s almost normal.
Almost.
After dinner, Pops goes back to the recliner, and Cameron starts cleaning up like he can scrub grief off a plate.
Sloane disappears down the hall again.
I rinse my glass at the sink slowly, staring at the water swirling down the drain.
The urge to knock on Sloane’s door is so strong it feels like muscle memory.
Not because I think she’ll let me in.
But because I can’t stand the thought of her alone in there, locking everything inside, pretending she’s fine while the world collapses.
I dry my hands and limp down the hall.
Halfway there, I stop.
What am I doing?
Cameron asked me not to leave.
He didn’t ask me not to kiss his sister.
But the implication is there, hanging like a warning sign.
