She hesitates. Pride flares. Then it dies.
“Yeah,” she says. “Please.”
I nod and turn toward the kitchen.
Sloane follows in my wake like she’s tethered to me by an invisible thread, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She’s holding the sweatshirt to her chest like she’s afraid someone will take it away.
When we reach the kitchen, I keep it simple.
I grab a glass. Fill it with cold water. Set it on the counter within reach.
Then I pull open the drawer and take out a pack of those electrolyte powder packets that Pops used to make her drink when she was sick as a kid.
Sloane sees it and lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob.
“Of course,” she whispers.
I glance at her. “What?”
She shakes her head, eyes glossy. “He used to—” Her voice catches. She clears her throat and tries again. “He used to put that in my water and tell me it was magic. Said it could fix anything.”
My chest compresses. I keep my face steady with sheer will.
I nod once and tear open the packet.
“Magic water,” I say softly, pouring it in.
Sloane’s mouth trembles.
She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to fall apart again.
I stir it with a spoon, set it down, then slide it toward her without making a big deal out of it.
Sloane wraps her fingers around the glass and takes a sip.
Her throat works as she swallows.
For a second, she looks almost like herself—just a girl in her kitchen, drinking something sweet, wearing grief like a heavy coat.
Then she lowers the glass and stares at the counter.
The silence stretches.
I can hear Cameron shift in the living room. The soft scrape of fabric against leather. A breath.
Sloane’s shoulders rise and fall.
And then she says, barely audible, “I can’t do this.”
The words punch a hole straight through me.
I keep my voice calm. “You don’t have to do all of it at once.”
She shakes her head harder. “No, I mean…I can’t—” Her eyes squeeze shut. “He’s not supposed to be gone.”
I step closer, slow and careful, like approaching a skittish animal.
“Sloane,” I say quietly.
