The drive to Cami and Hunter’s was about fifteen minutes.
Halfway there, it hit me, and I found myself tightening my grip on the steering wheel.
She said she’d deal with it. She didn’t ask me to go, didn’t even hint at it. And here I am driving across town in the rain like—
Like what?
Like she’s mine to take care of.
Like her pain is my responsibility.
Like I can’t sit in that house knowing something can be fixed and choosing not to fix it.
This is stupid.
We aren’t together. We skirt around touches, talk like friends, pretend the history between us isn’t loaded with things unspoken. But somewhere between then and now, I found myself overly concerned with how she was feeling, taking ownership of it.
My jaw tightened.
It’s medication. Not a crisis,I tried to remind myself, but the image of her curled on my couch wouldn’t leave my head.
I don’t like people hurting. I especially don’t like it when they pretend they’re not. And I definitely don’t like the way it made my chest feel.
I reached their house, earning a shocked look when they opened the door.
Hunter answered the door in sweats.
“Hey, man. Dani left her meds here today; she needs them.”
“Is she okay?” he asked immediately.
“Yeah.”
Cami appeared behind him, already holding the small pouch.
“Here are her pills. Take good care of my girl, Logan.” While her tone was soft, it was clear how much weight she placed on the implication in that statement.
I nodded once, took them, and left before the conversation could start.
I didn’t want commentary, didn’t want knowing looks. I already knew this was more than practical, and that made the drive back feel longer.
Because somewhere between starting that bath and turning onto Hunter’s street, this stopped being about solving a problem and became something else entirely.
Something that made me uneasy. Something that felt too much like care. Care that edges into attachment. And I will never forget what that costs. Because grief doesn’t leave. It settles in, lingers in your bones, reshapes the way you move through everything after. It teaches you how fragile life is and how quickly it can be taken.
By the time I stepped back inside, the house had gone still, the bathroom silent like nothing had happened at all.
I set the medication on the kitchen counter, grabbed a glass of water, and leaned back against the wall to catch my breath.
The adrenaline from the drive hadn’t burned off. It just shifted shape and settled under my ribs, sharp and restless.
I told myself to stay put. Give her space. She didn’t need me hovering outside the bathroom like some overprotective idiot.
But my feet moved anyway.
Not all the way to the door, but close enough. Close enough to hear the sloshing of water against the walls of the tub. To smell the faint, almost-sweet floral scent of her soap, mixing with steam and rain and something that felt dangerously domestic.
I dragged a hand down my face and forced myself back into the living room before I did something stupid like knock.
