My chest tightens again at the thought, but I shove it down.
Not tonight.
I pull a mug down—one of the mismatched ones Cameron always makes fun of. I set the tea bag in, pour the water, watch it bloom into gold.
Behind me, the floor creaks softly.
Sloane appears in the kitchen doorway, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like armor. She looks smaller like this, barefoot, hair messy, face pale under the overhead light.
She leans against the frame and watches me like she’s not sure what to do with a person who stays.
“Come sit,” I say gently, nodding to the stool at the island.
She doesn’t move right away.
Then she drifts in, slow, and climbs onto the stool with a careful heaviness, like her bones are tired.
I slide the mug toward her and add honey without asking. Because I know she likes it. Because the small things are the only ones I can control.
Sloane cups the mug with both hands, letting the warmth soak into her fingers.
For a moment, she just stares into it.
Then she says, barely above a whisper, “Do you ever think about how weird it is that the world keeps going?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“Like…the sun still came up,” she says, and her voice cracks on the last word. “The day after. And people still—” She shakes her head, eyes wet now. “People still posted pictures of their breakfast.”
My throat burns.
I lean my hip against the counter, close enough to matter, not so close I crowd her.
“People don’t know what to do with someone else’s grief,” I say quietly. “So they keep living around it.”
Sloane’s mouth trembles. She presses her lips together hard, like she’s trying not to fall apart right there.
I don’t say anything else.
I don’t fill the silence with comfort phrases that bounce off.
I just stand there and let her breathe.
After a long beat, she takes a sip of the tea.
Then another.
Progress, in the smallest way.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Once.
I freeze.
Sloane’s eyes flick up. “You can answer it.”
“It’s nothing,” I say too fast.
