She stares at me. “Logan Brooks.”
“Listen,” I say, defensive. “We’re out of food, and Cameron keeps pretending he’s going to cook and then ordering takeout.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches. “That’s because Cameron doesn’t know how to boil water.”
“Exactly. So. Grocery run. Then we cook something that won’t make you want to throw a pan at me.”
She considers, then nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she repeats. “But you’re not allowed to pick anything that is basically takeout that you make at home.”
I put a hand to my chest. “Rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
I grin. “Fine. You pick. I’ll just carry the heavy stuff and look sexy as fuck doing it.”
Sloane snorts. “With your bruise?”
“Especially with my bruise.”
She laughs again—quiet, but real—and the sound makes something inside me unclench.
Then she shifts, eyes narrowing like she just remembered something.
“Wait.”
I blink. “What?”
She points at my face. “Does Cameron…feel better? About us?”
I pause.
Sloane’s eyes widen in anticipation.
I sigh. “He said ‘a little.’”
Sloane bursts out laughing, rolling onto her back and dragging the sheet up like she’s hiding from the world.
“Oh my God,” she wheezes. “That is so on brand.”
I stare down at her, smiling despite myself. “You’re enjoying this.”
She peeks over the sheet. “I haven’t enjoyed anything in weeks. Let me have this.”
I shake my head, laughing quietly. “Fine.”
She lowers the sheet and looks at me with softened eyes. “Thank you.”
Two words.
But they land like a weight.
“For what?”
“For…staying,” she says, voice small. “For still being here when everything’s—” She gestures vaguely. “This.”
