Progress.
But the ache in my chest doesn’t obey any timeline.
I step out and walk up the driveway, letting the sun hit my face like it can burn some of this off me.
Jade and Blakely stand on the front porch, waiting for me.
“We didn’t want to leave her alone, but we also didn’t want to make her feel like we were hovering when she said we could leave,” Jade says, picking up the bag sitting next to her feet.
“I mean, I don’t really care if she thinks that. We are hovering. Hard core,” Blakely adds.
I rub the back of my neck. “I get it. Thanks for being here.”
“No problem,” Jade says, as they make their way toward her car. “Let us know if you guys need anything.”
Nodding, I send them a quick wave before heading inside.
The front door opens easily.
Inside, the house is quiet in that way grief makes things quiet—not peaceful. Just muted, like the world doesn’t want to make noise around what’s missing.
And then I hear it.
A soft sound from the living room.
Just a broken inhale, like someone is trying to swallow air and it won’t go down.
My chest tightens, and I move toward it.
Sloane is on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eyes on the screen but not seeing it. Her hair is pulled into a messy knot. Her face is pale in a way that doesn’t look like tired—it looks like she’s been scraped raw from the inside.
For a second, she doesn’t notice me.
Then her eyes flick to mine.
And something shifts—small, instinctive.
Not happiness.
Not healed.
Just recognition.
Like my presence means she doesn’t have to hold the whole world alone for one more minute.
I keep my voice low when I say, “Hey.”
Her throat works like words are hard, but she manages, “How was rehab?”
I swallow the spiral.
I shove Chicago into the farthest corner of my brain.
I shove the draft to two days from now, where it belongs.
And I focus on her.
“Good,” I say softly. “I got cleared to start jogging.”
