I back up a step, because I need oxygen.
“I’m going to bed,” I mutter.
Logan nods once, controlled. “Okay.”
I pause at the door.
Then I glance back at him, voice sharper than the emotion in my chest. “If you ever sneak into my room again?—”
“I made sure you weren’t in there,” he reminds me, amused.
“If you everappearin my room again,” I correct, “I’ll break your other knee.”
Logan’s smile turns real. “Noted.”
I leave before I can do something worse—like smile back and mean it.
But as I walk down the hall, my wrist feels heavier in the best way.
And for the first time in a long time, the house doesn’t feel like it’s only filled with endings.
It feels like there’s still something…starting.
Even if neither of us is brave enough to name it yet.
22
SLOANE
Two more weeks, and the house learns a new rhythm.
Not a sudden shift. Not a single moment you can point to and saythere, that’s when it changed.
It’s smaller than that.
It’s Pops sleeping in the recliner more often because getting back to his bed feels like running a mile. It’s the way his walker is no longer optional—no longer something he uses “just in case,” but something that lives under his hands like an extension of him.
It’s the way his shirts hang loose even when I watch him eat, even when I count calories in my head like I can outsmart biology with math.
It’s the slack at the corner of his mouth that stays a little longer after he smiles, like his face gets tired mid-expression.
It’s the way his words sometimes come slower, like he has to reach for them.
And it’s the way I notice every single detail and pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Because if it means something, I have to feel it.
And if I feel it, I won’t be able to stop.
The living room is dim when I come home from practice, the late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds. It makes dust look like it’s floating on purpose, like even the air is moving carefully now.
Logan is on the couch, brace off, icing, pretending he’s watching a game while his eyes keep flicking toward the hallway.
He looks up when I enter, and his expression shifts—quick, instinctive.
Checking.
I hate that I’ve gotten used to being checked on.
