His hands come up to frame my face, his fingers sliding into my hair as he kisses me thoroughly, but I need more. I deepen the kiss, trying to move my legs to straddle him, but his lips curve up, and he pulls back just enough to speak.
“As much as I’d love this to continue,” he says, breath tickling along my jaw, “if your brother walked out right now, I’d be fucked, and not in the literal sense.”
I can’t help but laugh at that, dropping my head to his shoulder.
We sit there for seconds, minutes, maybe more, before he kisses my hair. He gently lifts my chin so that I’m looking right at him. His eyes are searching mine, and I’m not sure what he finds there, but he seems pleased with what he does.
I think the wordhateis turning into something I’m not quite ready to name.
27
LOGAN
Pops hits the floor at 1:17 a.m.
I know the exact time because I’m awake, staring at the numbers on the clock like it might blink back and tell me something useful, like how to stop replaying every stolen moment with Sloane.
He went to bed early.
Earlier than usual. Earlier than the careful, stubborn routine he’s built for himself since the cancer started stealing more than it gave. He blamed it on fatigue, waved Sloane off with a crooked smile, told her to stop hovering like she could outstare death if she tried hard enough.
She didn’t listen.
Neither did I.
The sound comes from down the hall—not a crash, not a shout. Just a dull, heavy thump. The kind of noise that doesn’t belong in a quiet house. The kind your body recognizes before your brain catches up.
My stomach drops.
“Pops?” I call, already pushing up from the table.
The chair scrapes loudly against the floor. Pain slices through my knee, white-hot and immediate, but adrenaline buries it under something louder.
Fear.
I move fast down the hallway, every step uneven, pulse pounding in my ears. The bedroom door is open.
He’s on the floor.
On his side, one arm pinned awkwardly beneath him, the other stretched out in front of him, shaking—fingers curling and uncurling like they’re searching for something to hold onto. Sweat darkens the collar of his hoodie. His skin looks wrong—not pale, not flushed. Just gray, like the light has been drained out of him.
“Hey. Hey, Pops.”
I drop beside him, hands hovering for half a second before I settle one on his shoulder, solid and grounding. His body feels hot under my palm—not fever-hot. Something else. Something deeper. Wrong in a way I can’t name fast enough.
“Look at me,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as my chest tightens. “Stay with me.”
His eyes flutter open slowly, unfocused, pupils sluggish.
“Logan,” he murmurs, and his words…aren’t right. Thick. Slurred. Like his tongue forgot the shape of them. “Room’s…spinnin’.”
The fear sharpens.
Not the slow, grinding dread we live with every day. This is fast and cold and vicious. This is the kind that makes you think of worst-case scenarios even when you try not to.
“Okay.” My voice goes low, controlled, like calm can keep him here. “Okay. Can you squeeze my hand?”
I slide my fingers into his right hand.
