The cabinet door is, in fact, hanging open slightly, like I forgot it existed the second I saw him.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Logan reaches past me to close it, but he doesn’t touch me. He gives me space, like he’s learned.
The restraint makes my chest ache.
When he steps back, his knee brushes the edge of the counter, and he winces.
I watch him before I can stop myself. “Does it hurt?”
Logan’s gaze flicks to mine. “Yeah.”
I swallow. “Then why are you standing?”
He shrugs. “Because you looked like you were about to throw the water bottle at my head.”
I huff. “I would have hit you.”
“Sure,” he says, and there’s that quiet confidence again.
I hate that it makes me smile. Just barely. A crack.
Logan sees it.
His eyes soften like he’s holding something fragile.
My smile disappears immediately, replaced by irritation because I don’t like being seen.
I turn away and yank open a drawer—too fast, too hard.
Inside are Pops’s meds. A pill organizer. A blood pressure cuff. A thermometer. The mundane evidence of reality.
My chest tightens.
Logan’s voice is careful. “You doing meds?”
“Yeah,” I say, too clipped. “Because someone has to.”
“I can—” he starts.
“No,” I cut in.
Logan goes quiet.
I pull out the pill organizer and start sorting automatically—muscle memory, routine, control. It calms me the way basketball does. Step by step. Compartment by compartment. Morning. Afternoon. Evening.
Logan watches from the table, not hovering, not pushing.
Just…present.
It annoys me.
It also—quietly—helps.
My hands move faster than my brain can spiral.
When I’m done, I slide the organizer back into the drawer and shut it.
