My body is hyperaware now: the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her shirt, the way her breathing evens out just a fraction with mine nearby, the way my knee stops screaming because my brain has latched onto something else entirely.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “Better.”
The word does dangerous things to me.
She shifts again, this time resting her head against my shoulder. Fully. Trusting.
My hand lifts before I can stop it—hesitates in midair, giving her time to pull back.
She doesn’t.
So I let my arm settle around her shoulders, light, careful, like she might shatter if I breathe wrong.
She relaxes into me.
And I know that this is the moment I am royally fucked.
Her choosing me, allowing me to trulyseeher, when she’s at her most vulnerable.
And me staying, knowing exactly how much this is going to cost me.
28
SLOANE
My childhood home doesn't feel like home tonight.
It feels hollow—gutted by the image of Pops on his bedroom floor, by the sound of the ambulance, by the way time stretched and contracted in the ER until I couldn’t tell minutes from hours. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a warning. Every shadow on the wall looks like something I’m about to lose.
The only real thing is Logan.
He’s stretched out behind me on top of the covers, careful to leave space between us, even though I asked him to stay. I can feel the warmth of him—solid, steady, alive—and it’s the only thing tethering me to now instead of spiraling into all the terrible tomorrows waiting in the dark.
His breathing is even. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to take up too much space in my room, in my grief, in my life.
I hate it.
I hate that he’s being careful when I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
I shift beneath the blanket, curling tighter, knees to chest. My body won’t relax. It keeps replaying the moment I heard the thud down the hall, the way my stomach dropped before I even knew what happened, the sound of my own voice shouting his name.
Logan shifts behind me—slow, deliberate. His hand hovers near my shoulder for a second, then settles there. Just his palm. Warm through my T-shirt.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
I didn’t realize I was.
I swallow hard, throat tight. “I can’t stop seeing it.”
Logan’s thumb moves in a small circle against my shoulder blade. Grounding. “I know.”
“What if—” My voice cracks. I bite down on the rest of the sentence because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate.
Logan’s hand tightens slightly. “He’s okay. He’s stable. Cameron’s with him.”
I nod, even though the reassurance doesn’t reach the part of me that’s screaming.
