Relief punches through me so hard it makes me dizzy—and right behind it, disgust. At myself. At the way my jealousy came out wearing teeth.
Sloane takes one step toward the hall like she’s done with me. “Goodnight, Logan.”
She turns away.
And panic—pure, sharp panic—snaps through my spine.
Because if she walks away right now, she’ll lock this up. She’ll swallow it. She’ll carry it. She’ll pretend she didn’t hear my voice crack on that question.
And I’ll keep being the worst thing that happened to her at nineteen.
“Sloane.” My voice is low.
She doesn’t stop.
I move.
Fast enough that my knee protests, fast enough that my palm hits the counter with a hardcrackthat slices through the quiet.
Sloane whips around, startled, then furious, just as I plant myself in her path.
Not touching her, just blocking, because I don’t know how to do this without being a wall.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
My pulse is a drumbeat behind my eyes.
I set my hand on the counter beside her, then the other on the opposite side—boxing her in without laying a finger on her. A cage made of me, and I hate myself for it even as I feel her breath catch.
“Move,” she snaps, but the edge of her voice shakes.
“I will,” I say immediately, because she needs to know she can leave. “If you tell me to. If you want out, I’ll back up right now.”
Her eyes burn into mine.
She doesn’t sayout.
She stays.
The choice, small, furious, hits me harder than any shove.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.
Because I can’t watch you disappear again.
Because I’ve been jealous for years, and I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t own me.
Because time is running out in this house, and I’m sick of being a coward.
I swallow hard. “I owe you an apology.”
Sloane’s mouth tightens. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I grind out.
“Don’t do the ‘I’m a good guy now’ thing,” she says, voice shaking with anger. “You don’t get to show up two years later and?—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I know I’m late. I know it doesn’t fix anything. But I need you to hear it anyway.”
