Count. One. Two.
Then I hear the soft shuffle of feet, one dragging slightly.
By the time Pops steps out of his room, I’m already leaning against the counter, pretending I wasn’t listening.
“Morning,” I say.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“That makes two of us,” he says lightly, moving to the coffeemaker.
His steps are steady, but they’re careful in a way they weren’t before. Like he’s thinking about where he puts his feet instead of letting his body do it automatically. It’s subtle enough that someone who doesn’t know him might miss it.
I don’t.
He pours coffee with both hands on the pot, slow and deliberate, trying to keep the tremors in his left side controlled enough not to spill it. The kind of tremor he’d dismiss as nothing if you asked him. The kind he’d callbeing tiredorgetting older, even though neither explanation fits the way his fingers tighten around the handle like he’s negotiating with his own body.
When he sets it down, he rubs his temple, just briefly, like he doesn’t want to be caught.
I catch it anyway.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Too quickly. “Just tired.”
That’s been his answer lately.
Tired. Fine. Nothing.
I nod and let it go. I’m still learning where the line is—what I’m allowed to notice without making things heavier than they already are.
Because there’s a difference between caring and panicking.
And I’m not sure anyone in this house can handle the second one right now.
Sloane comes out of her room a few minutes later, already dressed for practice.
“I’ll be late today,” she says, grabbing a protein bar off the counter. “Extra conditioning.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Pops replies.
She gives a half-smile, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “No promises.”
Her eyes meet mine for just a second, my stomach tripping over itself, and then she’s gone, the front door closing softly behind her.
The house exhales again.
Pops takes a seat at the table, wrapping both hands around his mug like he’s warming more than just his fingers. For a second, he stares at nothing—eyes unfocused, jaw set—like his brain is somewhere else entirely.
Then he blinks, and it’s gone.
Pops takes another sip of coffee. His hand trembles again, but he pretends it doesn’t.
I pretend I don’t see it.
For now.
