Cameron’s eyes flick to the sweatshirt. The way my fingers grip it like I’m holding onto my last thread.
Then his gaze returns to mine.
“Is this real?” he asks quietly. “Or is this…grief?”
The question is gentle.
And brutal.
My throat closes.
I don’t know how to answer it.
Because grief has eaten my body. My mind. My future. Everything.
And Logan is the only thing that feels solid inside it.
Does that make it less real?
Or more?
I blink hard. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know that when he’s not here, it feels…worse. A lot worse. The only time I can actually let myself go to sleep is when he’s here. He comes into my room almost every night after you go to bed.”
Cameron swallows and the muscle in his jaw jumps.
He nods once, like he’s filing that away for later too.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice clipped again. “Okay.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Cameron points at the plate with his chin. “Eat another bite.”
I almost laugh—because of course he would pivot back to food. Back to something he can control.
I tear off another small piece of toast and chew.
Cameron watches me swallow like it’s a victory.
It’s not.
But it’s something.
A moment passes. Then Cameron stands, moves to the sink, rinses a dish that isn’t dirty. His shoulders are tense.
He says, without turning around, “I’m not ready to have this conversation fully.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it.
“Me neither,” I whisper.
Cameron’s voice turns low. “But if he hurts you?—”
“He won’t,” I cut in, my voice sharp.
Cameron finally turns.
His eyes are wet.
