“Tea?” I ask.
She frowns slightly, like she’s trying to remember what tea is for. What comfort feels like.
“I don’t want?—”
“You don’t have to drink it,” I cut in gently. “Just…hold it. Warm your hands. Trick your body into thinking it’s okay to sleep.”
Her lips part like she might argue again, but she doesn’t have the energy.
Another nod.
I slip out of the bathroom, leaving the door cracked so she doesn’t feel shut in, and head to the kitchen.
The house is too quiet.
It’s always too quiet now.
I fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and stand there with my hands on the counter, staring at nothing while it heats. The window over the sink reflects me back—tired eyes, jaw too tight, shoulders carrying a weight that doesn’t belong to a twenty-two-year-old kid with a busted knee and a college scholarship.
My phone flashes in my mind like a flare.
Chicago.
I swallow hard and force it down.
Not now.
Not when she’s still dripping on the bathroom floor, letting me brush her hair because she can’t do it herself.
Not when this house is missing its spine, and I’m trying, and failing, to hold it up with my own.
The kettle whistles, sharp and sudden, and I flinch like it accused me.
I pour the water over a chamomile bag, add a little honey because I remember seeing her do that once, and carry the mug back down the hall like it’s something fragile.
Sloane’s in her room now, wearing a big T-shirt and soft shorts, hair brushed out and hanging loose. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, towel folded neatly beside her like she did it on autopilot.
She looks up when I enter.
For a second, her eyes soften, just a fraction.
It guts me.
I hand her the mug carefully.
Her fingers wrap around it, and she inhales the steam like she’s trying to breathe something other than grief into her lungs.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Anytime.”
She takes a small sip. Winces a little. Then holds it in her lap, both hands cupped around it like she’s clinging to the warmth.
I move to pull her blankets back, turning down the bed like it’s a normal night, like Pops isn’t missing from the world.
Sloane’s voice is small. “Are you…staying?”
I pause.
