Good.
If Pops hears me lose it, he’ll try to comfort me. He’ll spend whatever time he has left taking care ofme,and I refuse to steal that from him.
I walk into my room, already planning my next steps—emails, calls, trial searches, anything that feels like a rope.
Then I stop.
There’s a glass of water on my nightstand…again.
Anger sparks hot and immediate, because clinging to that is easier than admitting that him being nice is more dangerous than him being an asshole.
I snatch the glass and stare at it like it personally offended me.
Then I freeze.
Because he didn’t knock on the bathroom door while I was in the shower. He didn’t hover outside as if he’s entitled to my grief.
He just…left it waiting for me in my room.
Like he understands my body will need it later even if my pride wants to pretend it won’t.
I set the glass down again, harder than necessary. The small clink echoes through the room like a warning.
I dress fast—sweats, hoodie, hair shoved into a bun that isn’t messy so much as a violent mess on the top of my head that I’ll regret when I have to brush it later. I check my phone because I can’t help myself.
Three emails about hospice services.
Two messages from Jade with clinical trial links she’s already started digging into.
My throat tightens.
I can’t do soft right now.
I leave my room and walk into the living room like my spine is made of steel.
Logan is on the couch, leg elevated, brace still on, one crutch propped against the coffee table like he’s trying to make “progress” look casual. He looks up when he sees me, eyes flicking over my face like he’s taking inventory.
I hate that he notices things.
I hate that he’s good at it.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer.
I go straight to the kitchen and open a cabinet like I need something. I don’t. I just need my hands busy so I don’t think about the fact that hospice paperwork is sitting on our counter as if it belongs there.
Logan’s voice carries from behind me. “You find the water?”
My fingers tighten on the cabinet handle.
Of course he heard me.
Of course Logan Brooks—human complication, permanent inconvenience, the guy I’ve spent two years trying to hate properly—heard me crack and decided to insert himself into it. Decided to take care of me.
“I didn’t ask for it,” I say flatly.
A beat.
