She blinks up at me like she doesn’t trust her legs.
Then she slides her fingers into mine.
This time I don’t hesitate.
I lace them with hers—slow, deliberate—like I’m telling her body something her brain can’t accept yet.
I’m here. I’ve got you. You don’t have to float alone.
We walk down the hallway together.
Pops’s door is closed.
The sight of it makes her breath hitch so hard it’s almost a sob.
I squeeze her hand. Once. Twice.
“Not tonight,” I murmur, low enough that only she hears.
Sloane nods like she’s giving herself permission.
Inside her room, the air still smells faintly like her shampoo and steam. The lamp on her nightstand casts a warm circle of light that doesn’t know what happened today.
Sloane sits on the edge of the bed, towel gone now, wearing Pops’s sweatshirt, swallowing against the lump in her throat like she’s trying to keep it all contained.
It doesn’t work.
Her face crumples.
A broken sound slips out.
She clamps her lips together, angry at herself for it.
“Hey,” I whisper, moving closer. “You don’t have to?—”
“I can’t,” she chokes out, and then the rest caves in, spilling out of her in shaking sobs like her body waited until Cameron left to finally let it happen.
My heart lurches.
I sit beside her and pull her into me, and she goes willingly—curling into my chest like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“Breathe,” I murmur, kissing her temple. “Just breathe.”
She tries. Fails. Tries again.
Her hands clutch my shirt like she’s terrified I’ll disappear too.
I don’t tell her it’ll be okay.
I don’t promise tomorrow will hurt less.
I just slide us down onto the bed, easing her with me, careful and slow until we’re lying on our sides.
I tug the blanket over us both.
Sloane curls into me automatically, her head finding the center of my chest like it’s muscle memory, like my heartbeat is the only rhythm she can tolerate right now.
“Right here,” I whisper. “Stay right here.”
