—
By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun is already dipping, the sky turning that washed-out gold that makes everything look softer than it is.
I hate soft.
Soft is for people who aren’t counting down.
The basketball hoop silhouettes against the fading light, the same one Cameron used to dunk on until Pops yelled at him for hanging on the rim.
The house looks normal.
It pisses me off.
Because nothing inside it is normal anymore.
I step inside, and the smell hits first—coffee, food, and that faint clean antiseptic scent that clings to everything now.
“Tacos,” Cameron announces from the kitchen like it’s a celebration. “Because Pops demanded it, and I’m not arguing with a dying man.”
“Hi to you too,” I mutter, dropping my keys into the bowl.
Cameron grins. “Hey, Slo. Eat.”
My stomach flips. Everyone says that now, as if eating can fix anything.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket pulled up, walker close. He looks thinner today. Not “slimmed down” thinner—hollowed-outthinner. Cheekbones sharper, skin looser in places it shouldn’t be. A faint slack to his features, like his muscles are tired of pretending.
He’s eating. He’s trying.
His body just isn’t listening.
My chest tightens.
“There she is,” Pops says, and the smile he gives me is faint but real.
I cross the room and press a kiss to his temple. His skin is warm.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Practice?” he asks, voice a little rough.
“Good,” I lie smoothly.
Pops hums like he hears it but doesn’t have the energy to call me on it. “Good.”
Then I see Logan.
He’s near the hallway, leaning lightly against the wall like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. His brace is visible below his sweats, his weight shifted carefully. His hair is damp, like he washed up after rehab.
His gaze finds me.
For half a second, it’s normal.
Just…Logan.
Then his eyes flick to my mouth and away, and my pulse betrays me anyway.
I hate that thehatedoesn’t fit right for what I feel toward him anymore, and maybe it never really did.
