Her gaze sharpens, like she can smell a lie even through chamomile and honey.
“Logan.”
I force my hand out of my pocket slowly, pulling the phone into view.
The screen lights up.
I quickly send Carter to voicemail, not wanting to talk just yet.
My stomach turns, cold and heavy.
Sloane watches my face, watching the way my jaw locks, the way my thumb hovers without moving.
“What is it?” she asks, soft now, careful.
I look at her—at the blanket draped over her shoulders, at the mug in her hands, at the way she’s holding herself together with threads and stubbornness.
I think about Carter’s voice.
About the coach’s eyes.
About two weeks that are ticking by faster and faster with each minute that passes.
And then I think about Sloane on the bathroom floor, knees to her chest, crying quietly so no one can hear.
I can’t bring that call into this kitchen right now.
Not tonight.
So I do the cowardly thing.
I turn the phone face down on the counter.
Sloane stares at it.
Then at me.
Her voice is barely audible. “Are you…okay?”
I inhale slowly, forcing air into lungs that suddenly feel too tight.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
Her expression says she doesn’t buy it.
But she doesn’t push.
Instead, she reaches out—hesitant, almost shy—and hooks her pinky around mine where my hand rests on the counter.
A tiny touch.
A quiet request.
Stay.
My throat burns.
I lace my fingers through hers fully, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
