I pull away before I make it heavy.
Before I turn it into a promise she didn’t ask for.
Her eyes are wide, glossy in that way that makes my chest ache. “What was that for?”
I swallow, trying to keep my face neutral, like my heart isn’t beating itself to death against my ribs. “No real reason.”
Sloane blinks. “No real reason?”
I shrug like I’m casual. Like I didn’t just realize I’m completely screwed. “Just wanted to.”
She studies me, suspicion flickering—like she knows I’m hiding the real answer.
Because the real answer is:I’m in love with you, and every time you look even slightly like yourself again, I feel like I can breathe.
But I’m not saying that yet.
Not when she’s still learning how to exist without Pops.
Not when my love might feel like another weight.
So I keep it simple.
Sloane sets the milk on the counter and stares at it like it’s suddenly fascinating. “You’re weird.”
“Yeah,” I agree quietly. “I know.”
Her phone buzzes on the table. She doesn’t move for it.
Then mine does.
It starts ringing from where it’s charging beside the sink—sharp and loud in the quiet kitchen.
My stomach dips on instinct.
Because phones are how bad news arrives now.
I cross the kitchen and grab it fast, eyes scanning the screen.
Carter Hayes
My shoulders loosen a fraction.
Sloane sees the name anyway and lifts a brow. “Answer it.”
I hesitate, thumb hovering.
She already knows what’s in my head. Even if she won’t say it.
If you answer, you might get pulled back into football. If you get pulled back into football, you might leave.
She doesn’t say any of that. She just looks at me, calm in a way that feels practiced, like she’s learned how to carry fear without letting it show.
“Logan,” she repeats gently. “Answer it.”
I do.
“Brooks,” Carter says immediately, voice the same cocky smooth as always. “You alive?”
