“I can,” I argue, voice shaking. “I’ve been doing it.”
Pops’s mouth curves faintly, sad. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
I stare at him, heart pounding.
Because he sees everything.
He always has.
And he’s still—somehow—choosing gentleness.
My eyes sting.
“I don’t want to do this,” I admit, voice barely audible.
Pops nods once, understanding in his face. “I know.”
I hate that he knows.
I hate that he’s right.
Pops takes a slow breath, like even breathing is work now. “Sloane, I’m tired.”
The words gut me.
Not because he’s complaining.
Because he isn’t.
He’s stating a fact.
A quiet truth I can’t fix.
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Pops’s fingers tighten slightly around mine. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I lie immediately.
Pops raises his brows, unimpressed. “For someone with no formal training, you say that with a lot of authority.”
The old joke.
The old Pops.
It cracks something in me.
A laugh escapes, wet and broken.
Pops smiles faintly. “There you are.”
The warmth in his voice makes my eyes burn harder.
I shake my head, trying to pull myself back together. “You can’t—” My voice breaks. “You can’t take care of me right now. I’m supposed to take care of you.”
Pops’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. “That’s not your job.”
“It is,” I argue, panic rising. “It’s literally been my job since—since?—”
