“No,” Pops says gently. “Just rest.”
He pats her hand as he stands, and Sloane’s face softens in a way that makes my chest ache.
Then Pops shuffles down the hall, leaving the kitchen quieter.
Sloane turns to the sink, starts rinsing the teaspoon that doesn’t need rinsing, hands moving too fast.
I shift my weight, brace creaking.
Sloane’s eyes flick to my leg automatically.
“You should ice longer,” she says.
I blink. “What?”
She scowls. “Your knee. You always cheat the timer.”
“I don’t cheat,” I argue.
“You cheat,” she insists, like she’s observed it personally.
Heat creeps up my neck. “And how do you know that?”
Sloane stills.
The question lands in the space between us like a trap.
Because the answer is simple:because she pays attention.
She doesn’t look at me as she mutters, “Because you’re loud about it.”
I huff a laugh. “I’m not loud.”
“You complain like it’s a sport,” she snaps.
“That’s rich,” I say. “You complain like it’s a personality trait.”
Sloane whips toward me, eyes sharp. “I do not complain.”
She glares, and the tension crackles—not hateful, not soft, something in the middle that feels like friction and gravity.
Her gaze drops to my mouth for half a second.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I go completely still.
Sloane’s breath catches, almost imperceptibly.
For a moment, it’s just us in the kitchen again. The same charged quiet from the hallway earlier. The same inch of space that feels too dangerous to close.
Then headlights sweep across the front window.
Cameron.
Sloane jerks back like she’s been snapped by a rubber band. “I’m going to my room,” she blurts.
I lift a brow. “What, are you allergic to your brother now?”
Sloane’s eyes flash. “Shut up.”
