“Morning, kid,” he says.
“Morning,” I answer, voice rough. I clear my throat and pretend it’s just sleep. “You okay?”
His brows lift like the question is offensive. “I’m standing, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” I mutter, and I hate the way it comes out—half joke, half fear.
Pops snorts and turns toward the coffeemaker. He pours slowly with both hands on the pot, deliberate. He doesn’t spill, but I catch the tiny tremor in his left hand when he sets the mug down.
He catches me catching it, his jaw tightens instantly, and a rare look of anger takes over his features.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Wasn’t gonna say anything.”
“You always say something,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it. Just tired.
The kitchen smells like coffee and toast and that faint antiseptic scent that has seeped into the walls like it’s part of the house now.
A magnet on the fridge holds a hospice schedule in place.
The comfort kit bag sits tucked against the pantry wall like a silent threat.
Pops follows my gaze for half a second and then looks away first, jaw flexing.
“Big day,” he says lightly.
“Yeah,” I say.
He doesn’t say the rest out loud, but it hangs between us anyway.
Win today, and Sloane plays again next week.
Lose, and her junior season ends.
In normal life, that would be the heavy thing.
In this life, it’s a pebble stacked on top of a mountain.
A door clicks down the hall.
Footsteps.
Fast. Purposeful. Like she’s marching into battle.
Sloane appears in the kitchen already dressed for game day—warmups on, hair yanked into a ponytail so tight it probably hurts. Her face is neutral in that way she does when she’s scared.
Armor on.
She looks at Pops first.
Not at his mug. Not at the coffee. Not at the walker parked too close like it belongs.
Athim.
“Morning,” she says, voice steady.
“Morning,” Pops answers.
Sloane crosses the kitchen and kisses his cheek like it’s routine. Like she didn’t hesitate a second too long before she did it.
