“So you took it,” I say.
Logan shrugs. “Felt right.”
My throat tightens.
Because it did.
Because he’s choosingusin tiny ways that feel dangerous.
I force my voice back into bite. “Don’t get sentimental.”
Logan’s eyes hold mine. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Pops clears his throat loudly from inside the car. “Are we flirting out here or leaving?”
I choke. “Dad!”
Logan snorts softly.
Pops looks delighted with himself.
I glare at Logan. “This is your fault.”
Logan lifts a brow. “How is this my fault?”
“Because you encourage him,” I hiss.
Logan’s smile is small. “He doesn’t need encouragement.”
I hate that my mouth smiles back.
—
Back home, the house feels warmer—dim lights, familiar walls, the quiet hum of everything continuing even when I want it to stop.
Cameron isn’t here yet—probably at his own gym, probably doing Cameron things, probably being the golden boy while our dad sits in a car with a walker and pretends he isn’t exhausted.
Logan helps Pops into the house, slow and steady, one hand hovering near Pops’s elbow without grabbing unless Pops allows it. Pops pretends not to need him. Logan pretends to believe him.
I trail behind, swallowing the lump in my throat.
When Pops finally makes it to the recliner, he lowers himself like it takes every ounce of energy.
He leans his head back, eyes closed.
I go still.
“Dad?” I ask softly.
His eyes open. He smiles faintly. “Just catching my breath.”
Anger surges hot and sharp.
Because he shouldn’t have to catch his breath after walking from the car to the recliner.
Because he used to run drills in this living room just to annoy us.
Because this is wrong.
