Beck adds, “It’s for your own good.”
I look back at Sloane. The guy is still too close. Still too comfortable guiding her like he’s entitled.
Sloane’s posture is tight, her laugh not real, her eyes scanning like she’s looking for an exit and doesn’t know where to find it.
My chest aches.
Sophie steps closer, lowering her voice so it’s just for me. “Logan. She’s drowning. You can’t fix that. But you can stop being one of the weights tied to her ankles.”
The words punch straight through me.
I swallow, throat burning with guilt trying to claw its way to the surface.
Beck claps my shoulder gently. “I’ll run interference.”
Sophie smirks. “And if you chicken out, I’m telling everyone you’re terrified of Sloane Rhodes.”
My head snaps toward her. “You wouldn’t.”
Sophie smiles sweetly. “Try me.”
A laugh nearly escapes me—quick and surprised.
Sophie’s expression softens a fraction. “Go,” she says again. “Before she disappears.”
I exhale slowly and shift my weight forward.
One step.
My crutch taps the ground.
I take another.
And as I start moving, Sloane turns at the same time—guided by the guy’s hand on her elbow.
Her gaze flicks back across the yard.
Finds me.
For half a second, her eyes widen—surprise, irritation, something else sharp and unreadable.
Then the guy pulls her back into the house.
The sliding door shuts behind them.
I don’t go after her.
I tell myself it’s restraint. Maturity. Respect.
But really, it’s fear.
It’s the same fear that’s kept my apology lodged in my throat for two years—because if I say it out loud, I can’t pretend I didn’t mean it. I can’t pretend she didn’t matter. I can’t pretend I didn’t want her in a way that made everything complicated and dangerous.
Beck’s voice follows me as I turn back toward the house. “You’re gonna regret that.”
Sophie adds, louder, “You’re such a?—”
I don’t let her finish. I cut through the crowd, through the heat and noise and bodies, and I leave before my pride makes a worse decision than my fear.
