LOGAN
The knot sits in my throat the second I tighten my tie.
Because the house is too quiet.
Because the Rhodes’ house used to be loud even when it wasn’t. Pops’s laugh from the recliner. The clink of ice in a glass. The TV on too low because he “could hear it just fine.”
Now it’s just…absence. And the way grief has settled into the corners like dust no one has the energy to wipe away.
I glance at the mirror and barely recognize the guy staring back.
Same broad shoulders. Same dark hair. Same jaw that’s been clenched so long it feels like it might crack.
But my eyes look older.
I tug the tie again, tighter than it needs to be, like discomfort is a punishment I’ve earned. Then I stop myself because I can almost hear Pops in my head, dry as hell?—
Don’t strangle yourself, kid. You still got a future to mess up.
I swallow hard and step into the hallway.
Cameron’s already up. He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand he hasn’t really drunk from. He’s dressed, too—nice jeans, button-down, the kind of clean-cut that saysI’m fineeven when his face says the opposite.
His jaw works the way it’s been working since the funeral. Like if he keeps his teeth clenched, the world can’t take anything else.
“You good?” I ask because it’s the only language we have left.
Cameron’s eyes flick to me, then away. “You look like you’re going to a job interview.”
“Feels like one.”
He gives me a humorless half-smile. “That tracks.”
From down the hall, I hear the soft shuffle of socks. A bedroom door. A pause, like the person on the other side is bracing.
Then Sloane appears.
And my chest does that thing it’s been doing since the night everything broke open between us—tightening like it’s trying to hold her inside me.
She’s wearing sweats and one of Pops’s old sweatshirts. The sleeves swallow her hands. Her hair is twisted up, messy, like she didn’t have the energy to fight it into submission.
Her eyes lift to me, and for a second, I see the girl she used to be.
Then it’s gone.
Now she looks…thin. Not physically—she’s always been strong, built for basketball, built for endurance—but emotionally. Like the grief has scraped her down to something raw.
“You’re leaving?” she asks, voice flat like she’s stating the weather.
“Just for a few hours,” I say, stepping closer without thinking. I stop myself halfway. Give her space. “It’s draft day for Beck.”
“I know.” Her eyes flick to my tie. “You look…nice.”
The compliment shouldn’t hit like a punch, but it does. Because it sounds like she’s saying goodbye.
I clear my throat. “You sure you’re okay?”
Her mouth twitches, barely. “No.”
