My heart stutters.
“And then I cried in the shower,” she adds quickly, like she doesn’t want me to make it a big thing. “But it wasn’t—” Her throat tightens. “It wasn’t like before.”
I reach for her hand under the sheet and squeeze once. “That’s progress.”
Sloane’s lips press together. “It feels wrong.”
“I know.”
She searches my face. “Like if I’m not falling apart constantly, it means I’m forgetting him.”
The words hit me in the center of my chest.
I sit up a little, careful with the space, but I keep hold of her hand.
“Sloane,” I say, low and steady. “Your dad’s not in your tears. He’s inyou.”
Her eyes go glassy immediately.
I keep going before she can shove it down.
“He’s in the way you check on Cameron without making it obvious. He’s in the way you keep the house running even when you feel like you’re barely breathing. He’s in every stubborn, impossible, beautiful thing about you.”
Sloane blinks hard. “Logan?—”
I squeeze her hand again. “He would want you to laugh. He would want you to eat. He would want you to keep living, not only for yourself but for him too.”
Her mouth trembles.
And then—because she’s Sloane—she huffs out a shaky laugh and wipes her eyes aggressively.
“You’re being weirdly wise,” she accuses. “And sweet.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”
I grin. “Too late.”
She rolls her eyes, but she scoots closer anyway—until her knee bumps mine, until her hand stays in mine like it belongs there.
A quiet beat passes.
Then she clears her throat and says, “What are we doing today?”
The question is normal. Domestic, even.
It shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does.
Because it feels like she’s stepping back into life with both feet.
Even if they’re shaking.
I exhale. “Well. I was thinking we could do something wildly thrilling.”
Sloane lifts a brow. “Oh?”
“Grocery store.”
