Then I realize something and curse under my breath.
Logan’s brows lift. “What?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, then open the fridge again.
I scan the shelves.
No applesauce.
Pops takes his bigger pills with applesauce when his throat is irritated. It’s the only way he doesn’t gag, and he refuses to admit that’s the reason.
I stare at the empty spot where it should be, irritation flaring—at myself, at life, at the way tiny missing things can feel catastrophic when you’re already balancing on a ledge.
Logan’s voice is quiet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I repeat automatically.
Logan pushes back from the table slightly. “Sloane.”
My jaw tightens. “We’re out of applesauce.”
Logan blinks like he wasn’t expecting that. “Okay.”
I glare at him. “Okay doesn’t fix it.”
“I wasn’t—” He stops, then nods. “Sorry. Do you want me to?—”
“No,” I cut in again.
Logan’s jaw tightens, frustration flickering. “You keep saying no like you want me to vanish.”
My chest tightens. “I?—”
He exhales. “Never mind.”
He stands carefully, reaching for his crutch.
“What are you doing?” I ask sharply.
“Going to the store,” he says simply.
“No,” I snap. “Your knee?—”
“I can do it,” he says, voice firm but not loud.
“You can barely walk to the kitchen,” I argue.
Logan’s eyes flash. “I walked to the kitchen fine.”
“Youlimpedto the kitchen,” I correct.
He smirks faintly. “Same thing.”
“It’s not,” I snap, then stop because my voice is too loud and Pops is down the hall and this is exactly what I’m trying to avoid—noise, chaos, proof that I’m cracking.
Logan watches me, expression shifting softer. “I’m not trying to start something,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to help.”
Help.
