TV murmuring.
Pops’s recliner creaks.
I glance around the corner.
Pops is awake, blanket over his legs, walker parked close. His eyes lift to me immediately.
To the shirt.
His mouth twitches.
“Look at you,” he says, voice rough with amusement. “My boy.”
Sloane makes a strangled sound behind me. “Dad?—”
Pops lifts a hand. “Come on. I earned this.”
Sloane mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience.
I step into the living room, careful with my leg.
Pops studies my face for a beat, and the humor softens.
“How’d she do?” he asks quietly.
I glance back at Sloane.
She’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to look like she doesn’t care what I say.
Like she doesn’t care what he thinks.
Like she isn’t starving for it.
I turn back to Pops.
“She fought,” I say. “She ran the floor like she was possessed. She made the right calls. She kept her head even when it got ugly.”
Sloane’s throat works.
Pops’s eyes shine, faintly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice rougher. “You’d be proud.”
Pops exhales, closing his eyes for a second like he’s storing it away.
When he opens them, he looks at Sloane.
“Good job, kiddo,” he says.
Sloane’s face cracks for half a second.
Then she steps forward and presses a kiss to his cheek like she’s trying to hold him in place with her mouth.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Pops’s hand lifts, slow, and pats her arm. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Sloane’s voice goes tight. “You were.”
