The tie comes out crooked. I straighten it with a sharp tug that feels more like anger than adjustment.
Get it together.
I exhale and look at the sink, not the mirror.
Because if I look too long, I’ll start thinking about 4:54 a.m. on that Thursday morning again.
About the way Sloane’s scream filled my room.
About how nothing has sounded normal since.
I step out of the bathroom and into the hall.
The air smells faintly like coffee and flowers and that sterile hand soap hospice left behind. The living room is dim, curtains drawn halfway even though the sun is already up and bright outside—California’s idea of mercy.
Cameron is in the kitchen, leaning on the counter with both hands braced like he’s holding himself upright. His suit is on. His tie is tied. His face is solemn but…steady.
Not okay.
But doing what Cameron does—functioning through it.
I stop in the doorway.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
He looks up, and for a second, his eyes flicker with something raw before it’s gone again. “Hey.”
I nod toward him. “You good?”
Cameron huffs a breath that could almost be a laugh if it didn’t die halfway out. “Define good.”
“Fair.”
He stares past me for a second, gaze landing somewhere down the hall where the bedrooms are. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.
“Sloane’s been up since five,” he says, voice rough. “Still won’t eat.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah.”
Cameron’s eyes come back to mine, and there’s a weight in them that wasn’t there before. Like he aged ten years in eleven days.
He gestures at my tie with his chin. “Your knot’s crooked.”
I look down. It is.
I swallow. “I know.”
He pushes off the counter, steps closer, and without asking, reaches for my tie. Fixes it in two quick movements like he’s done it a thousand times—like he’s been tying his dad’s ties since he was a kid and doesn’t want to remember that right now.
“There,” he mutters. “Better.”
“Thanks.”
He nods once, then clears his throat. “They’re ready.”
They.
Not she.
