I flinch physically, like my body rejects them before my brain can process.
“No,” I say instantly.
Pops’s mouth tightens. “Kiddo?—”
“No,” I repeat, sharper. “Don’t do that.”
Pops exhales slowly. “I’m not trying to scare you.”
“Well, it’s not working,” I snap.
The edge in my voice fills the kitchen, sharp and ugly, and I hate it the second it leaves my mouth.
Logan shifts in the living room, the couch squeaking softly.
Pops glances toward him, then back to me. “It’s okay,” he says, like he’s soothing a frightened animal. “I get it.”
“I’m not having this conversation,” I say, voice trembling. “We’re not doing the ‘I’m leaving soon’—” My throat tightens. “We’re not doing that.”
Pops’s eyes soften. “Sloane?—”
“No,” I cut in again, voice cracking now. “No. You’re not—” I swallow hard, trying to force the words back down. “You’re not leaving. We’re still—there are things. Trials. Treatments. We can?—”
Pops’s gaze holds mine, steady and heartbreaking. “Kiddo.”
I shake my head hard, hair falling into my face. “Stop calling me kiddo like you’re saying goodbye.”
Pops flinches, just a little.
The guilt hits instantly, hot in my chest.
I blink hard.
Pops reaches across the table slowly, his hand trembling slightly as he places it over mine.
His palm is warm.
His skin feels thinner.
His hand used to feel like an anchor.
Now it feels like something precious I’m terrified to break.
“I’m not trying to say goodbye,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to say I love you.”
My throat burns.
“I know,” I whisper.
Pops’s eyes shine. “I need to talk to you about some things.”
My stomach twists. “Like what?”
Pops swallows. “Like…what you want. What you need. What happens after.”
“No,” I say again—softer this time, desperate. “No.”
Pops’s thumb strokes over my knuckles, a small, grounding motion. “You can’t outrun it by refusing to name it.”
