After our quick trip to the store, Sloane heads straight for her room like her ass is on fire, with some mumbled excuse about needing to go over new plays and watch film, but I know what she was actually doing.
She was running. Hiding.
From me. From the way I make her feel things that she can’t explain.
How do I know?
Because she’s doing the same damn things to me. Riding in a car with a girl is all fun and games until your eyes seem to be stuck on her. How soft her hair looks, how she bites her lip when there are too many cars close to her. The way she turns down the music when she needs to turn into the parking lot, even though she’s been to the same store hundreds of times.
I lean my forehead against the wall next to my bedroom door, breathing in and out slowly, trying to erase the image of her from my mind. I swear to God, she’s starting to make me feel a little insane.
Then I hear it.
A soft shuffle from down the hall.
Pops.
I go still.
His door opens wider, and he steps into the hallway like he’s trying not to make noise in his own house. His shoulders are slightly rounded, blanket still draped over him like he brought the nap with him.
He pauses when he sees me standing there.
“Where’s Sloane?” he asks, voice quiet.
“Her room,” I answer, keeping my tone casual. “We ran out of applesauce, so we had to run to the store really quick.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “Of course we did.”
Pops shuffles forward, and I’m immediately on alert—not hovering, but ready. My body moves before my brain can decide what’s appropriate.
“You good?” I ask.
Pops gives me a look. “I’m not eighty-seven, kid.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
He snorts, then winces and quickly rubs his temple once. The motion is subtle, like he’s embarrassed by it.
I clock it anyway.
My chest tightens.
Pops catches my gaze and raises his brows like he’s daring me to make a comment.
I don’t.
I just nod toward the table. “Want to sit?”
Pops moves to the table and lowers himself into a chair slowly. Not dramatic. Just…careful.
I hate careful. Careful feels like the opposite of him.
He watches me for a second, then nods toward the kitchen. “You’re not icing.”
“I did it earlier,” I lie.
Pops’s brow lifts. “Mm.”
