In Pops’s doorway, I pause.
He’s awake, eyes open, watching me.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
Pops’s mouth twitches, tired and kind. “Sure you are.”
My throat still burns.
I step into the room anyway, because denial might be my specialty, but Pops has always been the one person who sees through it.
And I realize something that makes my stomach twist all over again: this house is full of endings.
And I don’t know how to survive them without breaking.
16
LOGAN
Jason doesn’t count like a normal person.
He counts like he’s daring my body to betray me—slow, deliberate numbers that make each second feel like a decision. Like if I stop holding, I’m not just failing my knee, I’m failing the version of myself that used to sprint without thinking and cut on a dime like the world couldn’t touch me.
“Hold,” he says. “Don’t run from it.”
My hands clamp down on the parallel bars, knuckles bleaching white, while my surgical leg shakes under the weight like it’s trying to eject me from my own skin. The burn isn’t just in my knee. It’s in my pride. In my throat. In the part of me that’s used to pain meaninggo harderinstead ofgo carefully.
“One more rep,” Jason adds, like he didn’t just say that five reps ago.
I drag in air and taste metal. “You ever consider being less psychotic for a living?”
Jason grins. “Not once.”
With the progress I’ve made, I swear the clinic smells more like determination and pride than the disinfectant they use. Thelights are too bright. The mirrors force me to be too honest with what I see. Every time I catch my reflection, I want to look away.
But Jason doesn’t let you look away from anything.
“Load on three,” he says, tapping the scale with the end of his pen. “One…two…three.”
I shift weight onto the leg.
Pain snaps sharp and hot through my knee. Instinct screamsget off it. My hands tighten on the bars like I’m going to rip the metal out of the floor.
Jason’s voice stays steady. “Breathe. Hold. Pain is information, not a verdict.”
“Cool,” I grit out. “Can the information shut up?”
He snorts. “Nope.”
I hold.
Ten seconds.
My leg trembles. Sweat breaks out at my hairline, trickling down my temple.
And because my brain is my own personal enemy, it decides now is a perfect time for a replay of kissing Sloane in the kitchen.
Her eyes flicking to my mouth. Her hands gripping my hoodie like she was mad at herself for wanting it just as badly as I did.
