A touch that saysI’m still standing.
I don’t say anything that would make it bigger than it is.
I just walk beside her.
And for now, that’s what I can promise.
Not forever.
Not vows.
Not declarations.
Just presence.
Just showing up.
Just making coffee in a quiet house and strapping on a brace before the hospital because some part of me still believes preparation can keep people safe.
Maybe it can’t.
But it’s what I’ve got.
30
SLOANE
The wheelchair doesn’t belong in our driveway.
Neither does the wheelchair lift on the back of the van nor the two men in navy uniforms speaking in calm, practiced voices like this is just another Tuesday delivery—package dropped off, signature required.
But Pops is in that van.
He is coming home.
And my childhood house—the one that still smells like lemon cleaner and old basketball leather and Sunday dinner—feels too small to hold what’s about to come through the front door.
Except he’s not going to walk.
The thought hits like a bruise you don’t see until you press it.
Cameron paces near the front steps, phone in one hand, keys in the other, jaw set so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding. His hair is still damp, like he showered but didn’t actually wash the fear off. He’s wearing CSU sweats and a hoodie, but he looks like he’s about to suit up for war anyway.
Logan stands a few feet back, near the edge of the lawn, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to look casual and failing. He’s not wearing his brace and he moves smoother now—still careful, but not fragile.
His gaze flicks to me and holds for half a second.
Not soft.
Not romantic.
Just steady.
Like a hand between my shoulder blades, keeping me from tipping over.
When the van had slowed, turn signal ticking, and pulled into the driveway, my stomach flipped hard enough to make me dizzy.
When the driver killed the engine, everything went quiet.
