It’s the only thing that feels distinctly mine right now—this stupid, complicated, infuriating spark—because everything else belongs to doctors and timelines and hospice schedules and reality.
And that makes it dangerous.
My phone buzzes again.
Jade: also we are getting you a coffee the size of your head.
Jade: you need joy.
Joy.
I snort under my breath and grab my keys.
When I step into the hallway, the house is quiet. Not silent—Pops is watching something in the living room, volume low—but calm. Controlled. The kind of calm that feels like a fragile truce.
Logan is on the couch with his leg propped, ice pack balanced over his knee, just like nearly every day. He looks up when he hears my footsteps.
Not desire. Not exactly.
Recognition.
Like he’s seeing a version of me he hasn’t seen in a while.
I hate the way it makes my stomach flutter.
I make my voice sharp on purpose. “Don’t start.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Start what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
He lifts a brow. “You’re assuming I’m thinking.”
“Don’t play dumb,” I mutter, grabbing my coat from the hook.
Logan’s gaze tracks my movements, careful. “Where are you going?”
“Away,” I say, because it’s the truth and it’s not.
Logan snorts softly. “Helpful.”
I glare at him. “It’s a girls’ day.”
His brows rise. “You? Voluntarily?”
I narrow my eyes. “Say one more word, and I’ll throw my keys at your head.”
He tilts his head, like he’s actually considering the physics. “With that aim, you’d probably hit the TV.”
“I would hit you,” I correct.
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “Sure.”
I hate the warmth that blooms in my chest at his stupid confidence.
Pops’s voice drifts from the recliner, amused. “Don’t break anything expensive, kids.”
I freeze for half a second, then force myself to keep moving, because if I stop, my face will betray me.
