I hate him for being here.
And some sick part of me hates him for kissing me last night, because now my body keeps wanting his comfort while my brain screams that comfort is not safe.
The visit ends with paperwork and dates and the promise of someone being on call twenty-four-seven.
Cameron walks Marissa to the door. Pops leans back, eyes closed, exhausted now that he doesn’t have to perform.
I stand abruptly, the folder pressed to my chest like a shield, and head for the kitchen, because if I stay in the living room one more second, I’m going to shatter in front of everyone.
I barely make it to the counter before the sob claws up my throat.
I clamp it down.
Not now.
Not in front of Pops.
Not in front of Logan.
Not—
“Hey,” Logan’s voice comes from behind me, low. “Sloane.”
I spin, anger flaring because anger is easier than grief.
“What,” I snap.
He stops a few feet away, hands visible, posture careful like he’s approaching a wild animal. “I’m not—I’m not trying to?—”
“Then don’t,” I cut in. “Just…don’t.”
His jaw tightens. He nods once, like he’s taking another hit on purpose. “Okay.”
The quiet acceptance makes my anger wobble.
I hate that too.
“You’re hovering,” I accuse, because if I can make him the problem, I don’t have to face the folder on the counter with my dad’s death inside it.
“I’m standing,” he says dryly.
I glare. “You know what I mean.”
He exhales slowly. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches.
The house feels thin again, like even sound is afraid.
From the living room, Pops coughs softly.
My stomach twists.
Logan’s voice drops, gentler. “Do you want me to leave the room?”
The question shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does anyway.
“No,” I say too fast, then hate myself for it.
