Pops turns his head toward him without moving his feet. “Stay.”
Logan stills.
Pops’s voice is firm but not unkind. “I’m fine.”
Logan’s jaw tightens, but he nods once and sits back, eyes fixed on Pops like a tether.
Pops looks back at me. “Can we talk?”
My stomach drops.
“About what?” I ask too fast.
Pops’s mouth twitches, and his gaze softens. “Just…talk.”
I swallow. “We’re talking.”
Pops lets out a quiet breath, like he knew this would happen. “Sloane.”
The way he says my name is gentle.
It’s also a warning.
My hands grip the edge of the counter. “What?”
He nods toward the table. “Sit with me.”
I don’t want to sit.
Sitting turns into staying. Staying turns into conversations I can’t control.
But Pops is looking at me with those steady eyes, and I’ve never been able to say no to him when he’s serious.
So I dry my hands, then move to the table.
Pops shuffles over and lowers himself into the chair carefully, like his body doesn’t trust itself anymore.
My chest aches.
I sit across from him, forcing my posture straight, like if I sit like a captain, I won’t fall apart like a daughter.
Pops studies me for a long moment.
I hold his gaze like this is a game of chicken.
I always win.
Until I don’t.
“Sloane,” he says quietly, “I need you to hear me.”
My throat tightens. “I hear you.”
Pops’s fingers tap lightly against the table. His hands look thinner. His knuckles more pronounced.
“I’m getting worse,” he says.
The words hit like a slap.
