Chapter 19 Sloane
SLOANE
The second my door clicks shut, I regret it.
Not walking away. Not closing my door. Not even the boundary, because boundaries are the only reason I’m still functioning.
I regret the look on his face.
That flash of something that wasn’t cocky or amused or infuriating—something soft. Something like he’d been about to step into warmth, and I slammed the window closed on his fingers.
I press my forehead against the wood and inhale through my nose until my lungs stop shaking.
I don’t have space for you.
It is true.
It is also a lie.
Because the problem isn’t space.
The problem is that the moment I make space for Logan, he fills it.
Not in a suffocating way. In a way that feels…good. Familiar. Dangerous. Like the kind of thing my body recognizes as relief.
And I can’t afford the relief that comes with strings.
I can’t afford anything that feels like hope.
Because hope is greedy. Hope makes you forget what’s coming.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the carpet, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands like that’s going to keep me from unraveling.
My heart is still pounding from the way he leaned in.
Slow. Controlled. Like he was asking.
And the terrifying part is that I almost said yes.
I almost let myself.
I almost did something that would make this house explode in a different direction—one I don’t have energy for, one I don’t have the right to want when Pops is down the hall and my brother is barely holding on and everything is already broken.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
This is not the time.
Except my brain, traitor that it is, supplies a different thought, like it’s obvious.
When is the time?
I swallow hard and stand up.
I don’t let myself sit too long anymore. Sitting turns into spiraling, spiraling turns into crying, crying turns into the kind of loss of control I can’t take back.
So I move.
I go to my dresser and open a drawer like I’m looking for something.
I’m not.
I’m just proving to myself I can do normal actions without falling apart.
My phone buzzes on my bed.
I glance at it.
Jade: movie + food later this week? you’re not allowed to say no.
I stare at it for a second, then type back:
sounds good.
Then I toss the phone like it offended me.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
I listen, automatically cataloging sounds the way I always do now.
TV low in the living room. Pops’s cough earlier. Cameron’s footsteps fading. Logan’s…nothing.
Which is worse.
Because Logan quiet is Logan thinking, and Logan thinking is Logan making decisions that scare me.
I move to the window and peer through the blinds like I’m looking for a threat, but the street is empty. The winter sky is darkening. The porch light flicks on automatically.
Everything looks normal.
That’s the cruelest part.
Normal outside. Not normal inside.
I turn away, and my eyes land on the corner of my room—on the edge of my laundry basket, on the stack of books I haven’t had the brain space to open, on my planner sitting open like it’s still in charge.
I could do what I always do.
I could take out my laptop and search until my eyes blur. I could make lists. I could reorder Pops’s medications by color and time of day. I could build a wall of productivity and hide behind it.
But I can still feel Logan’s mouth almost touching mine.
And that is not something a spreadsheet can fix.
I drag in a breath and force my shoulders down.
Okay.
Okay.
What do I do now?
I’m thirsty. My throat feels like sandpaper, like my body’s reminding me I exist.
The idea of walking into the hallway and possibly seeing Logan makes my stomach flip.
Annoyingly.
Stupidly.
Like I’m seventeen again, and he’s in our kitchen in a PCU hoodie that doesn’t belong in my house, and my brain is short-circuiting because I want something I’m not supposed to want.
I roll my eyes at myself, then open the door.
The hallway is dim, lit by the soft glow from the living room. Pops’s door is cracked. Cameron’s door is shut. The bathroom door is shut.
Logan isn’t in sight.
My chest loosens and tightens at the same time.
Relief and disappointment in the same breath.
I pad down the hall toward the kitchen.
The living room couch is empty.
His crutch is leaned neatly against the wall like he’s not planning on moving far.
The staged equipment is still off to the side, wrapped and waiting, not screaming, just existing.
I keep walking like I don’t see it.
The kitchen light is on, dimmer than full brightness. Someone—Cameron—must’ve turned it down to make the house feel softer.
I open the fridge and stare at it.
Water. Juice. Leftovers. Pops’s tea.
I reach for a bottle of water—
And freeze.
Because Logan is sitting at the kitchen table.
Not lurking. Not watching me like a predator.
Just…sitting. One leg stretched carefully under the table, brace visible, hands wrapped around a mug like he’s trying to warm himself from the inside out.
He looks up when I move.
His eyes catch mine.
And there it is again—softness.
Not smug. Not amused.
Something careful. Something like he’s trying not to spook me.
My chest tightens.
I hate that I notice.
I hate that I care.
I make my voice sharp because it’s the only tool I trust. “Why are you in here?”
Logan’s brow lifts slightly. “Because it’s a kitchen.”
“It’s midnight,” I say, even though it’s not. It’s barely evening. Drama is my coping mechanism too, apparently.
Logan’s mouth twitches. “It’s eight-thirty.”
I glare at him, grabbing my water like the fridge might close and trap me inside if I’m not fast enough. “Why are you awake?”
Logan shrugs, the movement slow and careful. “Knee’s pissed.”
“So you decided to…drink tea to cope with it?” I nod at his mug.
“Coffee,” he corrects.
“That’s worse.”
“I like living dangerously,” he says, deadpan.
I snort, then immediately regret it because it’s too close to laughter, and laughter is intimacy, and intimacy is exactly what I told him I don’t have space for.
I twist the cap of my water too hard, the plastic crackling.
Logan’s eyes flick to my hands before returning to my face.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
My stomach drops.
I hate that he asks that with that tone. Like he’s not trying to fix it. Like he’s just trying to…see me.
I snap on instinct. “Stop asking me that.”
Logan nods once, immediately. “Okay.”
There it is again.
That calm compliance that makes me want to scream.
“Stop saying ‘okay’ like you’re…” I gesture vaguely, frustrated. “Like you’re the mature one.”
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “I’m definitely not the mature one.”
“Then act like it,” I shoot back.
He lifts his mug to his mouth, eyes still on mine. “You want me to start a fight?”
“Yes,” I say instantly.
Logan huffs a soft laugh. “Weird kink.”
My cheeks burn. “Shut up.”
He holds up one hand in surrender, smile fading into something quieter. “You told me not to. I’m…trying.”
The words land heavier than they should.
I swallow. “Trying what?”
Logan’s gaze holds mine for a beat too long. “Not to push.”
My throat tightens.
Because pushing is what I expected. It’s what Logan always did my freshman year—pushed and poked and teased and then said the one thing that cut deepest and left me bleeding while he walked away like he didn’t care.
But this Logan is different.
This Logan stops when I say stop.
And the scariest part is that it makes me want to let him in closer.
I clamp down on that thought and take a long drink of water.
Cold slides down my throat, grounding me.
Logan’s voice is quiet. “I didn’t mean to…”
“You did,” I say, because I can’t stand the softness creeping into the air. “You always do. You get close, and then you—”
“Then I what?” he interrupts, voice still low but sharper now.
I open my mouth.
No words come out.
Because the truth is too ugly to say out loud:
Then I want you. And wanting you makes me furious because it reminds me I’m human.
I glare instead. “Nothing.”
Logan’s gaze searches my face, frustration flickering. “Sloane.”
Hearing my name like that—quiet, steady—makes my stomach flip.
I hate my body.
I take another drink of water, then slam the bottle down onto the counter a little too hard.
Logan’s eyes flick to it. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You are,” he says, gentle and maddening.
“I said stop,” I snap, voice cracking on the edge.
Logan goes still. His eyes soften. “Okay.”
I flinch, anger surging because his softness feels like pity, and I will not be pitied in my own kitchen.
I step closer, pointing at him like he’s a problem I can solve with aggression. “Do you think you can just—just sit there and look at me like you’re some saint and I’m some—”
Logan’s chair scrapes quietly as he shifts, pushing back just enough to give his leg room. “I’m not a saint.”
“Then what are you doing?” I demand.
Logan’s gaze drops to his hands for a second, then lifts back to mine. “I’m staying.”
The words hit me in the chest.
Not dramatic. Not poetic.
Just…staying.
My throat burns.
“And what,” I whisper, voice suddenly thin, “you think that makes you…noble?”
Logan’s jaw flexes. “No.”
“Then why,” I push, because if I can make him angry, I can make him familiar. If I can make him mean, I can stop wanting him. “Why are you here?”
Logan’s eyes don’t waver. “Because Pops asked me to be.”
My chest tightens.
That shouldn’t hurt.
It does anyway, because it means Pops sees what I refuse to admit.
It means Pops has been watching us destroy each other and decided he’s tired.
“And because…” Logan adds, quieter.
I hate that my heart kicks.
I hate that I wait.
Logan swallows. “Because Cameron asked me not to leave.”
The knot in my chest shifts—relief and guilt tangled together. Because I don’t want Logan to leave either.
I just don’t know how to let him stay without breaking something.
I take a step back, breath unsteady. “Fine.”
Logan’s brows lift slightly. “Fine?”
“Fine,” I repeat, voice sharper, because that’s safer. “Stay. Drink your stupid coffee. Be…helpful.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Okay.”