Because he’s still someone’s son who just lost his dad.
Because he’s someone’s brother who doesn’t know how to protect his sister from anything that matters.
Because he’s my best friend, and he’s trying to keep his world from changing any more than it already has.
I can’t blame him.
I wouldn’t even if I wanted to.
Sloane shifts beside me, a soft sound leaving her throat. Her hand slides over the sheet and finds my chest like it’s instinct—like even asleep, she’s searching for something solid.
I hold my breath.
Her fingers curl.
Then her eyes blink open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening when they land on me.
For a beat, she just stares.
Like she’s checking to make sure I’m real.
Then she exhales, and her whole body slackens into the mattress, relief hitting her so quietly it almost breaks me.
“Hi,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
My chest warms. “Hi.”
Her gaze drifts down my face…and stops.
Her brows lift.
Then she makes this tiny noise that is not sympathy and not panic.
It’s closer to a laugh.
“Wow,” she whispers.
I close my eyes for half a second. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I’m gonna,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Is this what you meant when you said the talk went well?”
I open one eye. “Sloane.”
She bites her lip like she’s trying not to grin, but she fails immediately. It spreads across her face—small, sleepy, real.
The first time I’ve seen her look light in days.
Maybe longer.
She reaches up—slow, gentle—and touches the sore spot near my jaw like she’s testing a bruise on a peach at the grocery store.
“How bad is it?” she asks, still amused.
“It’s fine,” I lie.
She hums. “You say that with a lot of confidence for a man who looks like he tried to fight a wall.”
“I didn’t fight a wall,” I mutter.
