Her eyes widen just a fraction—surprise and something like pride trying to break through the numbness.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, and try for light, even though my chest hurts. “It was ugly. Trent said if I try to sprint, he’ll tackle me himself.”
A ghost of a smile touches her mouth—barely there, but real.
It guts me more than tears would.
I step closer, crouching beside the couch so I’m level with her.
“You eaten anything?” I ask.
Sloane’s eyes flick away.
That answer is no.
I nod like I already knew. “Okay. We’ll start small. Toast. Something. And if you hate it, you can blame me.”
Her voice is small. “You’re back.”
It isn’t a question.
It’s a fact she needs to say out loud, like it’ll anchor her.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m here.”
Sloane swallows, and her fingers tighten around the blanket. “Okay.”
Just one word.
But it lands like permission.
Like she’s letting me hold some of this.
I reach up slowly, giving her time to flinch, to pull away.
She doesn’t.
So I brush my thumb over her knuckles—light, grounding.
And in my head, the future still roars.
Chicago might call.
The draft might change everything for Beck.
My dream might crack open again.
But right now—right now the only thing I’m certain of is this:
Sloane Rhodes is still breathing.
And if I can help her keep doing that, I will.
Even if it costs me everything I thought I was supposed to want.
43
