Then I say, “We’re…figuring it out.”
Cameron’s eyes narrow. “Figuring what out?”
My throat tightens. “Us.”
The wordusfeels ridiculous and sacred at the same time.
Cameron goes still.
Like even he didn’t expect me to admit it out loud.
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see his brain trying to categorize this. Trying to decide which box it goes in.
Grief behavior.
Comfort.
Bad timing.
Danger.
My fingers twist in the hem of my sweatshirt—Pops’s sweatshirt. The one I haven’t taken off since the funeral. The one that still smells like him if I don’t breathe too deep.
Cameron’s voice comes out rough. “How long?”
I hesitate.
If I give him the full truth—if I tell him about kisses, about hands, about my body pressing into Logan’s like it’s the only place I can breathe—Cameron will explode.
And I don’t have the energy for that either.
So I give him pieces. Like he asked.
“Not long,” I say honestly. “Before…before Pops?—”
My voice breaks, and my vision blurs.
Cameron’s expression softens for half a second. Then he swallows it down.
“Before Pops died,” he finishes for me.
I nod.
Cameron leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like he’s counting something in his head.
“What the hell, Sloane?” he murmurs.
My chest tightens. “Cam, don’t?—”
He cuts his eyes to me. “I’m not mad at you.”
I blink.
He exhales hard. “I’m mad at him. It’s different.”
Of course it is.
Because Logan is his best friend. The person he trusts with his life. The person Pops trusted. The person Cameron has always believed was safe.
