He crouches in front of me, elbows resting on his knees, close enough that my knees could brush his chest if I moved.
“I don’t like you walking alone,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine,” I start, the lie automatic.
His gaze stays steady. “Sloane.”
The way he says my name isn’t soft exactly.
It’s anchored.
Like he’s calling me back into my body.
My throat tightens. I look away.
“I don’t cry all day anymore,” I admit suddenly, because the truth is sitting on my tongue, and I can’t keep swallowing it forever. “I only do it in the shower, or you know, when you’re there.”
Logan’s face shifts—pain flickering in his eyes.
He doesn’t pity me.
He doesn’t tell me I’m strong.
He just looks like he wants to take it from me and can’t.
“Is that…better?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “It’s…controlled. At least.”
Logan nods slowly, like he understands the need for control. Like he’s lived his whole life inside that same tight grip.
“And you’re eating,” he says, gentle.
Not a question.
A fact.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
He holds my gaze. “Good.”
The word lands warmer than it should.
I glance down at the milkshake and take a small sip, mostly to give my hands something to do.
The cold sweetness hits my tongue, and for a second—just a second—it feels like a normal day.
And that almost breaks me.
My shoulders tighten, and I stare straight ahead at the street.
Logan’s voice drops lower. “Are we walking back or driving?”
I hesitate.
Because choosing the ride feels like admitting I don’t want to do anything alone anymore.
And that scares me.
