After a moment, Pops sits back, shoulders slumping like holding himself upright at the table cost him more than he wants to admit.
Logan’s gaze flicks over him in a quiet assessment.
Then Logan stands. “Want to get comfortable?”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “I am comfortable.”
Logan just lifts a brow.
Pops sighs, defeated. “Fine. Yeah.”
I stand immediately. “I can help.”
Pops looks at me, eyes tired but sharp. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”
“So has he,” I argue, chin tipping toward Logan.
“And he’s already stubborn,” Pops says. “I don’t need two of you.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “I can handle it.”
He moves carefully beside Pops, one hand hovering near his elbow without grabbing—support without making him feel weak.
Pops pushes up with effort, breath catching. The walker is right there, and Logan steadies it automatically, adjusting it like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Easy,” Logan murmurs.
Pops exhales. “I am.”
He’s not. His steps are slow. Measured. Heavy in a way they never used to be.
They disappear down the hall.
I stand in the living room, arms crossed, staring at the empty space they left behind.
My chest aches with something I don’t want to name.
Because it’s not just Pops getting worse that hurts.
It’s watching Logan see it too.
It’s watching him carry it quietly, like he’s already planning for a world without Pops in it.
When Logan comes back, his face is tighter, eyes darker, like he had to swallow something down.
“How is he?” I ask, and I hate how my voice softens.
Logan’s gaze holds mine for a beat. “Settled.”
“Good,” I whisper.
Silence stretches, thick.
The TV murmurs in the background. Some sports show that no one is watching.
I can’t sit still in all of the emotions I’m feeling.
“I’m going outside,” I say abruptly, grabbing the ball by the wall like I planned it.
