Pops’s thumb wipes a tear off my cheek, carefully. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let it out. You don’t have to be strong every second.”
I hate the relief that floods me.
I hate how good it feels to collapse for one moment.
And I hate that Logan is in the next room listening.
Because it feels like being seen without permission.
My voice breaks. “I don’t want to do this without you.”
Pops’s eyes close briefly, grief flickering across his face. “I know,” he whispers. “I don’t want to leave you.”
The admission slices clean.
I press my forehead against his hand, sobbing.
Pops’s voice is barely there. “I’m tired, kiddo.”
My throat tightens. “Okay.”
Pops exhales, hand still on my cheek. “Help me back to the recliner?”
I nod quickly, wiping my face with my sleeve, furious at the wetness. “Yeah.”
I stand, moving around the table, and slide my arm under his carefully.
Pops grips his walker and pushes up slowly.
His body trembles with the effort.
Anger flares again, bright and vicious.
Because this is wrong.
Because he should be strong.
Because he should be immortal.
We take one step.
Then another.
Pops leans slightly into me, pretending he isn’t.
Then we’re in the living room.
Logan is already on his feet.
Pops lifts his chin. “I’m fine,” he says automatically.
Logan nods once, controlled. “I know. Just—” He gestures toward the recliner. “You want me to move the footrest?”
Pops pauses like it annoys him to need help, then mutters, “Yeah. Fine.”
Logan moves quickly, smoothly, adjusting the recliner so Pops can sit without fighting it.
Pops lowers himself with a tired exhale.
