This is the part where I should be careful.
This is the part where I should think about Cameron and lines and respect and the fact that I’m living in his family’s house like I always have—except now everything is different.
But I look at her face, and I already know the answer.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “If you want me to.”
Sloane’s throat works.
She nods.
I help her slide under the covers, not because she can’t, but because she looks like she’s made of paper right now—thin and fragile and one wrong move away from tearing.
I set the tea on the nightstand within reach and pull the blanket up around her shoulders.
Her eyes flutter closed for a second.
Then open again.
Like she’s afraid to let herself go.
I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that she can feel me there, and brush my knuckles lightly against her forehead—soft. Familiar.
“I’m right here,” I whisper.
Her breath catches.
And then?—
The front door opens.
A voice carries down the hallway, low and tired.
“Logan?”
My whole body stills.
Sloane’s eyes snap open, panic flaring instantly like she’s been burned.
Cameron’s footsteps are heavier than usual. Slower. Like even walking through his own house takes effort now.
I stand quietly and step into the doorway, half blocking the view, instinctive, protective.
Cameron appears at the end of the hall.
He’s in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, jaw working like he’s grinding down something sharp inside him. His eyes flick to me, then past me toward Sloane’s room.
He sees the light on.
Sees me standing there.
Sees…enough.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice controlled in a way that’s never a good sign.
I keep my tone steady. “She showered. I made her some tea to see if that would help her relax.”
Cameron’s gaze slides over my shoulder.
