And the look on his face—like he sees the way I keep a whole house together with my teeth—makes my chest ache in a place I refuse to acknowledge.
“I’ll check on him,” I mutter.
Logan’s voice stops me, gentle but firm. “Sloane…I’ve got it.”
I freeze.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
If he’s got it, then what am I holding onto so tightly my hands ache?
I turn my head just enough to glare at him. “No, you don’t.”
His jaw tightens. “I can walk to a bedroom.”
“It’s not about your leg,” I bite.
He flinches slightly, then steadies. “Then what is it about?”
Everything.
About the fact that he kissed me last night and I let him, and now my body wants things my brain and heart can’t afford. About the fact that Pops is down the hall and time is shrinking and I don’t get to addLogan Brooksto the list of things that could break me.
“It’s about you not inserting yourself into everything,” I say, sharper than I mean.
He goes still.
Then he nods once. Small. Controlled. Like he’s taking the hit on purpose.
“Okay,” he says. “Go.”
The lack of argument throws me off balance, but I don’t let it show. I turn and head down the hallway before my face betrays me.
Pops’s door is cracked. The nightlight paints the room in soft amber, and for a second, he looks like himself—big shoulders under the blanket, a familiar silhouette.
Then he coughs again, and I hear the effort in it.
I step in quietly and sit on the edge of his bed. His eyes are closed, but his brow is pinched like even sleep isn’t letting him rest.
“Pops,” I whisper.
His eyelids flutter. He blinks once, slow, like he has to climb back to the surface.
“Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“How’s your head?” I ask immediately.
His mouth twitches, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. “Fine.”
I stare at him until he sighs.
“Okay,” he corrects. “It’s there.”
My throat tightens. “You need anything?”
He shifts, wincing faintly. “Just…a minute.”
I nod, smoothing the blanket over his chest like it’ll fix something. My gaze flicks to the little notepad on his nightstand, my handwriting all over it—med times, appointment times, questions I’ve been collecting like ammunition.
