Chapter 18 Logan
LOGAN
The worst part about being injured is how much time you have to think.
On campus, when my body was whole, my days were scheduled down to the minute—lift, meetings, practice, film, class, treatment, repeat. My brain didn’t have space to wander because wandering was how you started questioning everything.
Now?
Now my day is measured in small tasks. Ice. Elevate. Stretch. Eat something. Text Jason if the swelling spikes. Pretend I’m not losing my mind.
And in the quiet of the Rhodes’ house—Pops napping, Sloane tucked away in her room like a thunderstorm behind a locked door—the thoughts I’ve been avoiding creep out and take up the couch beside me like they pay rent.
The staged equipment is still off to the side, wrapped and waiting. Not dramatic. Not taking over. Just…there, like a spare set of keys you don’t want to need.
My knee throbs under the ice pack, a steady reminder that my body is still on the hook for my choices.
So is my heart.
Because Sloane came home from girls’ day with her cheeks pink from laughter she tried to hide, and for a few minutes, I got to see her as herself instead of the version that’s braced for impact.
And I liked it.
Which is a problem, because liking Sloane Rhodes is not a cute new development. It’s a lifelong injury. It’s the thing you don’t admit out loud, because the minute you do, it becomes real—and real means consequences.
The biggest consequence being Cameron.
I can still hear Pops joking about us flirting and Sloane choking on her own indignation. I can still see the flash in her eyes when she looked at my mouth—like she hated that her body remembered last night too.
And I can still feel the panic under my skin, because if Cameron sees that look—if he clocks what happened—he’s going to do what any brother would do.
He’s going to protect her.
From me.
I shift on the couch, the ice pack crinkling.
I tell myself I’m here for Pops. For rehab. For being useful.
I tell myself last night was a one-time collision between grief and tension and two idiots who don’t know how to stop fighting long enough to breathe.
I tell myself a lot of things.
My phone buzzes.
Beck: so? you alive?
Beck: sophie says you better not fumble whatever you’re doing.
I stare at the message. My thumb hovers over the screen.
What am I doing?
I don’t even know.
I text Beck back:
alive. not doing anything.
He replies instantly.
Beck: coward.
Beck: also…fair. timing’s brutal.
I exhale hard and set my phone down.
Timing is brutal.
Everything in this house is brutal in quiet ways. The way Pops’s nap is longer than it used to be. The way Sloane moves like she’s trying not to make noise. The way Cameron’s jokes have thinned out around the edges, like he’s rationing them.
I listen.
The house hums softly. The fridge. The clock. A distant car passing outside.
From down the hall, a floorboard creaks.
I go still.
Sloane’s door opens a crack.
She doesn’t come out fully, like she’s testing the air first. Like she’s deciding whether it’s safe to exist in the same space as me.
Then she steps into the hallway, hoodie on, hair pulled back looser than earlier. She pauses when she sees me on the couch.
Her eyes flick to my leg, then up to my face.
“You’re still here,” she says flatly.
I lift a brow. “It’s my house, too, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately.”
I smirk because it’s safer than the truth. “What do you need?”
“I didn’t say I need anything,” she snaps, walking toward the kitchen.
I watch her go, trying not to stare.
She’s not wearing makeup. Her cheeks are a little flushed, like she just washed her face. She looks…soft.
Which is terrifying.
She opens a cabinet too hard, the door thunking. Grabs a glass, filling it with water like she’s punishing the faucet.
I push myself up, crutch in hand, and limp after her because my body moves before my brain can stop it.
Sloane hears me and turns, eyes narrowing. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not,” I say automatically. “I’m…getting water.”
“You have water,” she says, pointing toward the living room, like the couch comes with a built-in hydration system.
I huff a laugh. “You’re in my way.”
Her brows shoot up. “I’m in your way? In my kitchen?”
“In Pops’s kitchen,” I correct, and immediately regret it because it sounds like I’m claiming territory in a house that isn’t mine.
Sloane’s gaze sharpens, like she heard that too. “Right. Pops’s kitchen.”
Her voice isn’t cruel.
It’s guarded.
And that guard hits me in the chest harder than any insult.
I shift my weight carefully, brace creaking.
Sloane’s eyes flick to it. “How’s rehab?”
The question is casual, but I can hear the effort underneath it.
It’s her version of reaching.
I keep my voice light on purpose. “Jason’s still a sadist.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches faintly. “Good.”
I blink. “Good?”
“Yeah,” she says, then sets her glass down with a little too much force. “At least he’s doing his job.”
I stare at her for a beat. “You worried about me?”
Sloane’s eyes flash. “Don’t get cocky.”
My mouth curves. “So that’s a yes.”
Sloane’s cheeks flush. She grabs her glass again like it’s a weapon. “I’m worried about Pops.”
The shift is quick. Defensive.
I nod slowly, letting her have it. “Me too.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy in the kitchen.
It shouldn’t feel intimate. We’re literally standing next to the sink.
But it does, because last night happened. Because the air between us is still charged. Because my brain keeps replaying the way her eyes flicked to my mouth before she kissed me back.
Her eyes lift to mine for half a second, then drop again.
That tiny crack in her armor makes my chest ache.
I want to say something. Anything.
But the moment is gone the second the front door opens.
Cameron’s voice booms into the house like he’s trying to bring energy in with him. “I’m back! I brought—” He pauses, then adds, “Well, I brought nothing. But I’m back.”
Sloane flinches away from me like she’s been caught doing something illegal.
My stomach drops because maybe we were.
Cameron rounds the corner into the kitchen, keys in hand, hoodie half unzipped, hair a mess like he ran his hands through it too many times.
His eyes flick between us.
Not suspicious—at first. Just curious.
Then his gaze lands on Sloane, and the softness on her face disappears instantly. Armor snaps back on like a reflex.
“I’m going to my room,” she announces too fast.
Cameron blinks. “Uh…okay?”
Sloane brushes past him without looking at either of us. Her shoulder bumps mine on the way by, and the contact is small but electric.
I go still.
Sloane doesn’t look back.
Her door clicks shut down the hall.
Cameron stares after her for a beat, then turns to me, brows knitting. “What was that?”
I keep my expression neutral. “Sloane being Sloane.”
Cameron narrows his eyes like he doesn’t buy it, then sighs and grabs a water bottle from the fridge.
He twists the cap too hard. Plastic cracks loudly, and he winces like the noise hurt him.
I watch him as he drinks, throat working, jaw tight. Not dramatic. Just…tense. Like his body is holding something he refuses to put down.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, the word rough around the edges.
Silence stretches.
I hate silence lately. Silence is where my brain starts listing all the ways I can lose this family.
Cameron’s gaze flicks to my brace. “How was rehab?”
“Well, I’m still breathing,” I say.
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.
“Good,” he mutters. “Keep doing it.”
He sets the bottle down and leans a hip against the counter, staring at the staged equipment off to the side like if he looks long enough, it’ll climb back into the box and disappear.
“It’s weird,” he says finally.
“Yeah,” I agree quietly.
“I hate that it’s just…sitting there,” Cameron admits, voice low.
“Pops wanted to wait,” I remind him.
Cameron nods, jaw flexing. “I know. It’s just—” He cuts himself off, breath tight. “It makes it real.”
The word hangs in the kitchen like smoke.
My throat burns. I keep my voice steady. “It’s real either way.”
Cameron’s eyes flick to me. He studies me for a beat—like he’s checking if I’m still here, if I’m still solid, if I’m still the guy he can lean on.
And it makes my stomach twist, because the thing I’m not saying sits in my chest like contraband:
I kissed your sister.
Cameron looks away first, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.
That makes two of us.
The honesty hits hard because he doesn’t admit that. Cameron is the guy who has a plan. Cameron is the guy who calls plays and runs drills and makes other people feel like everything’s under control.
I swallow. “None of us do.”
He huffs a laugh that isn’t funny. “Sloane thinks she does.”
My mind flashes to her girls’-day softness disappearing the second she stepped into the kitchen. To the way she snapped at me like anger is the only emotion she trusts.
“She’s…trying,” I say carefully.
Cameron’s eyes narrow slightly. “Yeah. She’s trying so hard she’s gonna snap.”
I nod once, because he’s right.
Cameron’s gaze flicks toward the hallway, then back. “Just—” He exhales. “If she starts being…extra.”
“Extra,” I repeat.
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. If she starts picking fights over nothing or acting like she’s fine when she’s not—don’t take it personally.”
I almost laugh at the irony.
Because I’m taking everything personally.
I nod anyway. “I won’t.”
Cameron’s shoulders loosen a fraction, like that answer matters.
Then his eyes lock on mine again, serious. “Promise me you’re not going anywhere.”
My chest tightens.
Not “promise you’ll stay until dinner.”
Not “promise you’ll help with Pops’s meds.”
But “promise you won’t disappear back into your life and leave us with this.”
“I’m here, man,” I say quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Cameron nods once like he’s trying to believe it. “Good.”
He grabs the dish towel and starts wiping down the counter, even though it’s already clean. Something to do with his hands. Something to control.
“Always,” I manage.
Cameron nods like that’s enough. Then he sets the towel down and jerks his chin toward the living room. “I’m gonna check on Pops.”
“Yeah,” I say.
As he walks away, my stomach twists again, because I can feel it—the inevitable moment when Cameron finds out about the kiss.
And I can’t decide what scares me more:
Cameron’s anger…
Or his disappointment.
—
Dinner is…awkward.
Cameron makes pasta because that’s his default comfort food, and Pops eats a few bites with a faint smile like he’s trying, and Sloane appears long enough to sit at the table but not long enough to be present.
She doesn’t look at me.
I don’t push.
We talk about nothing—basketball schedules, Cameron’s class, a stupid sports commentator Pops hates.
It’s almost normal.
Almost.
After dinner, Pops goes back to the recliner, and Cameron starts cleaning up like he can scrub grief off a plate.
Sloane disappears down the hall again.
I rinse my glass at the sink slowly, staring at the water swirling down the drain.
The urge to knock on Sloane’s door is so strong it feels like muscle memory.
Not because I think she’ll let me in.
But because I can’t stand the thought of her alone in there, locking everything inside, pretending she’s fine while the world collapses.
I dry my hands and limp down the hall.
Halfway there, I stop.
What am I doing?
Cameron asked me not to leave.
He didn’t ask me not to kiss his sister.
But the implication is there, hanging like a warning sign.
Protect her.
Don’t make this harder.
And last night—God—last night might have been exactly that.
Harder.
I turn back toward the living room.
Then Sloane’s door opens.
She steps out quietly, barefoot now, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes flick to me.
We freeze.
Two enemies in a hallway.
Two idiots with a kiss between them.
“What?” she says, voice flat.
I lift my brows. “What?”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you lurking?”
“I’m not lurking,” I reply automatically. “I live here.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches like she wants to smile and refuses. “You sound like a squatter.”
“I’m a medically necessary squatter,” I say.
Sloane’s eyes flick to my brace. “How’s the knee?”
“Still attached,” I say.
She huffs softly, then steps closer—just a little. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo.
Close enough that my brain goes stupid.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
My pulse spikes.
I swallow hard.
“Sloane,” I murmur, without meaning to.
Her eyes lift to mine, wide for half a second.
Then she takes a breath like she’s about to do something reckless.
I lean in without thinking.
Not fast.
Not like I’m stealing.
Slow, like I’m asking.
Sloane’s eyes flick to my mouth again.
Her fingers curl into the sleeve of her hoodie.
And just as the last inch disappears—
Pops coughs from the living room.
A soft, rough sound that cuts through the hallway like a knife.
Sloane flinches like she’s been burned.
She jerks back, eyes flashing with anger that has nothing to do with Pops and everything to do with herself.
“I can’t do this right now,” she snaps.
My chest tightens. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were,” she cuts in, voice shaking. “Don’t do that.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
My calm “okay” seems to make her eyes flash hotter.
I step back, keeping my hands to myself, even though every part of me wants to reach out to her.
“I’m trying not to make things harder for you,” I say quietly.
Sloane’s throat works. Her gaze darts toward the living room like she’s terrified Pops heard.
Then she looks back at me, eyes sharp and wet.
“I don’t have space for you right now,” she whispers.
The words hit like a punch.
My throat burns.
“I know,” I say softly.
Sloane’s jaw tightens like she hates my softness more than my sharpness. Then she turns and disappears into her room, the door clicking shut like a verdict.
I stand in the hallway for a long second, staring at the wood grain of her door, feeling my heart thud against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.
Then I limp back to the couch and sit down, ice pack already melting against my knee, Pops asleep in his recliner.
And I realize something that makes my chest ache in a whole new way:
I’m not scared of Cameron finding out.
I’m scared that Sloane is right.
That she doesn’t have space for me.
And that I’m going to want her anyway.