“Exactly,” Pops replies, satisfied.
Sloane grabs her keys off the entry table, then pauses at the door. Her gaze flicks to me, quick.
“Are you home for the night?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll help him eat so you don’t have to wrestle him.”
Pops makes a sound of offense. “I don’t need help. Just some extra napkins.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches. “Whatever you say, Pops.”
Pops waves her off. “Go. Bring food. Hurry.”
Sloane rolls her eyes and leaves, the front door clicking shut a moment later.
And just like that, the feeling in the house changes.
The air goes quieter. The house instantly feels emptier. The absence of Sloane’s movements is a presence all its own.
Pops watches the door for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at me.
“Come sit,” he says.
My stomach tightens.
I do it anyway, stepping closer and heading toward the couch.
Pops pats the edge of the bed with his good hand. “Over here, kid.”
I sit in the chair beside him instead, because sitting on his bed feels too intimate for the conversation I can already feel coming.
Pops gives me a look.
“You’re acting like you’re about to confess to a crime,” he says.
I huff a laugh. “Maybe I am.”
His eyes sharpen, amused. “Ah.”
There it is.
My throat goes dry.
Pops shifts slightly, winces at the movement, then settles again. He looks tired in a way that isn’t just physical—like his body is carrying a truth his family keeps refusing to hold with him.
“Cameron’s out tonight,” Pops says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“And Sloane’s gone for Thai,” he continues. “Which means I have you trapped here without her hovering.”
I lift a brow. “You planned this.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “I’m a coach. Of course I planned this.”
I shake my head, but a smile sneaks in anyway. “What’s the play, Coach?”
Pops studies me for a long beat.
