Logan waits without pushing. Without filling the silence. He just stays there, steady, patient, like he has all the time in the world to let me decide.
My chest aches.
I hate that I need this.
I hate that it feels like relief.
I whisper, “We can drive.”
Logan nods before standing and holding out his hand for me to take.
I stare at it for a beat.
Then I slip my fingers into his.
His hand closes around mine, warm and solid.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not when he helps me up.
Not when he leads me toward his truck.
Instead, his fingers slide between mine, weaving tighter, like he’s making a point without saying it out loud.
Like he’s telling my grief,you don’t get to take everything.
I swallow hard and walk beside him, milkshake in one hand, Logan in the other.
And for the first time since Pops died, I let myself lean without fighting it.
Just a little.
Just enough to keep moving.
48
LOGAN
Aweek can change a person in ways you don’t notice until you do.
It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t soften the fact that Pops is still gone and the house still carries him like a ghost you can’t exhale. But grief…shifts. It moves its weight. It stops being a constant siren and becomes something quieter—something that waits in corners, patient and cruel.
Sloane is the only reason I know that.
Because she’s starting to come back in fragments.
Not fully. Not even close. But enough that I catch myself making mental notes like I’m trying to memorize proof.
She ate half a bowl of cereal yesterday without staring through it like it was cardboard.
She went outside and sat on the porch steps for ten minutes and didn’t look like she was bracing for impact the entire time.
And this morning—this morning she walked into the kitchen with her hair still damp from the shower, wearing one of my old PCU hoodies, and she didn’t flinch at the sound of the coffeemaker clicking on.
Small things.
But small things are everything right now.
