I laugh once, sharply. “Then stop talking.”
He pauses, eyes narrowing. “That’s not how conversations work.”
“Great,” I snap. “Then let’s not have one.”
I turn back toward the kitchen, anger buzzing across my skin because it’s easier than admitting the real truth:
I’m embarrassed.
I’m embarrassed he might’ve heard me break.
I’m embarrassed I needed the water.
I’m embarrassed my grief has witnesses.
My phone buzzes on the counter, the screen lighting up with another email.
Hospice Intake: Next Steps
My stomach lurches.
Logan’s voice comes quieter behind me. “You’ve been looking at trials.”
I stiffen. “Don’t.”
“I’m not judging,” he says.
“You are,” I shoot back immediately. “You’re standing there thinking I’m in denial. That I’m delusional.”
He’s silent for a beat.
Then, “No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m standing here thinking you’re the only person I know who could turn grief into a to-do list. It’s terrifying.”
My throat tightens. I hate that my eyes burn.
I keep my back to him. “It’s called being productive.”
“It’s called refusing to sit down,” he counters.
I whip around, anger flashing. “And what exactly do you suggest? I sit here and wait? Like it’s some kind of?—”
I stop because the wordendingsits on my tongue, and I can’t say it.
Logan’s gaze holds mine. He doesn’t soften. He doesn’t pity.
He just says, “I’m not suggesting you stop. I’m suggesting you eat something while you do it.”
I stare at him, thrown.
That’s…annoyingly reasonable.
I hate that too.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, needing some semblance of control.
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You’re always hungry. You just forget when you’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
