I stand there, arms crossed tightly over my chest like I can physically hold myself together again.
Logan looks at me.
His eyes flick to my face—my swollen eyes, my damp cheeks.
I feel exposed. Raw.
My voice turns sharp out of reflex. “What?”
Logan’s expression stays soft. “Nothing.”
“I don’t want your pity,” I snap.
Logan’s jaw tightens. “It’s not pity.”
“Then what is it?” I challenge.
Logan exhales slowly, keeping his voice low because Pops is right there. “It’s…me being here.”
The words hit too hard.
My throat tightens.
I look away fast, staring at the TV like it’s interesting.
Pops clears his throat, tired. “Can someone bring me that blanket?”
I move instantly. “I’ll get it.”
Logan’s voice is quiet. “I’ve got it.”
We speak at the same time.
I glare at him.
And he holds my gaze.
Then, deliberately, he steps back. “You go.”
The small surrender makes my chest ache.
I grab the blanket from the chair and drape it over Pops carefully.
He sighs like it feels good. “Thanks, kiddo.”
I nod. “Of course.”
Pops’s eyes drift toward Logan. “You too,” he says, voice quieter. “Thank you.”
Logan’s throat works. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Anytime.”
Pops’s eyes close slowly like he’s sinking. “I’m going to rest.”
I freeze. “Okay.”
Pops’s breathing evens out, and the living room goes quiet except for the TV murmuring in the background.
I stand there, chest tight, hands shaking.
