My head snaps forward so fast my neck pops.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then the door opens.
Sloane steps out with damp hair and skin flushed from the heat, wrapped in a towel like the fabric could hold her together. Her eyes are swollen. Red around the rims, like she tried to fight it and lost.
She sees me and freezes.
It’s the smallest pause, the tiniest flare of embarrassment, like she didn’t want anyone to witness the aftermath.
Like she didn’t want me to know how bad it is.
My throat tightens.
I don’t make a joke. I don’t ask if she’s okay because that question is useless. It’s a landmine. It’s an invitation to lie.
I just soften my voice and say, “Hey.”
Her throat works. She nods once.
“Hi,” she whispers, like the word costs her.
I shift off the wall slowly, careful not to crowd her, and hold out what I grabbed from her bedroom while she was in the shower—Pops’s old sweatshirt, the gray one that’s been washed a thousand times and still smells faintly like him. It’s too big on her. It always has been.
I don’t point that out.
I don’t say anything about it at all.
I just hold it out.
Sloane’s eyes flick down.
Her face crumples for half a second, so fast I almost miss it.
Then she reaches for it with shaking hands and clutches it to her chest like it’s oxygen.
Her voice breaks. “You?—”
“I didn’t go in his room,” I say quietly, because I know. I know that boundary. “It was on your bed.”
She nods again like she can’t speak.
I step back a fraction, giving her room to breathe.
Sloane swallows hard and tries to stand taller. Tries to put her armor back on.
But she’s exhausted. Hollowed out.
I hate that she thinks she has to be strong in front of me.
“Cameron’s still here,” I tell her, gently. “He’s…in the living room.”
Her eyes flick down the hall, like even the idea of seeing him like this hurts.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“Do you want water?” I add, quieter.
