“We won’t,” I cut in.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Okay,” she says gently. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hang up, and my hand is shaking.
I set the phone down like it’s hot. Like it burned me.
Pops is out with Cameron, grabbing lunch, he’d said. He’d waved his hand like he was fine, like he wasn’t tired, like his head didn’t hurt, like the wordscandidn’t live between us like a ticking bomb.
I’d smiled back like I believed him.
Logan is in the living room, leg stretched out, ice pack balanced over his knee. The TV is on but muted. He’s staring at it like he’s watching something else entirely—probably reliving some glory moment from before his injury. Before he became my problem.
He looks up when he hears the phone hit the counter, and I hate how quickly his eyes find mine. He always fucking notices.
“You good?”
The casual way he says it, like we’re friends, like he has any right to ask, makes something hot and vicious coil in my chest.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
There it is.
The question I can’t answer honestly. Not to him. Not to the one person in this house who’s here because he has nowhere else to go, who’s taking up space that should be filled withsomething other than his brooding presence and constant reminders that life doesn't always go according to plan.
“Don’t start,” I say tightly.
“You look?—”
“If you say ‘tired,’” I cut in, spinning around to glare at him, “I swear to God?—”
“Wrecked,” he says instead.
The word lands like a slap.
My spine goes rigid. Heat floods my face, my throat, my chest. Of course he’d say that. Of course Logan fucking Brooks would choose the one word that cuts deeper than tired, that implies I’m falling apart instead of just worn down.
I step forward, like proximity might help me aim the anger better. “Oh? That supposed to be empathy?”
His expression doesn’t change. “No. Just an observation.”
“Well, observe this,” I snap. “I don’t want your concern. I don’t need your commentary. And I definitely don’t need you sitting there judging me like you’re some expert on my emotional stability.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. Good. I want a reaction.
Instead, he just watches me. “You’re not stable.”
It’s not cruel. It’s not even mocking.
It’s worse.
It’s flat. Honest.
My vision pricks at the edges.
“Neither are you,” I fire back. “At least I have a reason. What’s your excuse?”
