Chapter 27 Logan #2
“I don’t care,” she spits, voice cracking.
Pops settles it when they finally let us see him—voice weaker, speech still thick, but eyes clear enough to aim the words right where he wants them.
“Kiddo,” he murmurs, trying for stern and landing somewhere tender. “Go home.”
Sloane’s lips tremble. “No.”
Pops’s good hand lifts slowly, shaking. He reaches for her cheek and barely makes it.
“I’ll be right here after you get some rest,” he says. Her throat works. She nods once, brittle.
Cameron turns to me. “Take her home. Please.”
I nod and start walking toward the parking lot, Sloane following behind quietly.
The drive home is silent, and once we make it back home, the silence is even heavier than before.
The house feels wrong without Pops in it. Empty. Echoing. Like something essential has been pulled out and the walls haven’t adjusted yet.
Sloane kicks off her shoes by the door and just…stops. Like she doesn’t know what comes next.
I guide her to the couch, grabbing a blanket and draping it over her carefully.
She stares at the floor.
“I keep thinking I’m prepared,” she whispers. “I keep telling myself I can handle this.”
“You don’t have to be prepared,” I say. “You just have to get through it one day, one night, at a time.”
Her shoulders finally cave.
She doesn’t cry loudly. Just quiet, shaking sobs that feel worse somehow. I sit close—not touching, but near enough that she knows she’s not alone.
“I’m here,” I say softly.
I mean it.
And that scares me almost as much as watching him hit the floor.
She doesn’t move for a long time.
Just sits there on the couch with the blanket pooled in her lap, staring at nothing like if she looks too hard at the room, it might fracture. The house is quiet; no Pops’s breathing from down the hall, no TV murmuring low. Just the hum of the fridge. The tick of the clock. My own pulse, too loud.
I stay where I am.
Close enough to matter. Far enough not to crowd her.
Eventually, she inhales like it hurts.
“I hate that he told me to go home,” she says softly.
“I know.”
“He always does that. Pretends he’s fine so I don’t—” Her voice catches. She presses her lips together, swallowing the rest. “So I don’t see how bad it is.”
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to fix. Nothing I can make better with words.
She turns her head slightly, eyes red-rimmed, exhausted in a way sleep won’t touch. “Did he scare you?”
The honesty of the question guts me.
“Yes,” I say. No pause. No lie. “A lot.”
She nods like that confirms something she already knew.
Silence stretches again, thicker this time.
When she shifts, it’s slow, careful, like her body finally remembered it’s been running on fumes for weeks. She tries to stand and wobbles.
I’m on my feet before I think.
“Hey.” I reach out, stopping myself just short of grabbing her. “Easy.”
She sways once more, then steadies—one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other fisted in the blanket.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs automatically.
“Sure,” I say. “And I’m pain-free and ready to play in a game tomorrow.”
That earns me a weak huff of laughter. It fades almost immediately, leaving her eyes glossy again.
“You should get some sleep,” I add, gentler. “At least try.”
She nods, but she doesn’t move.
I wait.
Finally, she looks up at me, and something in her expression shifts. Less guarded. More raw.
“Will you…walk me to my room?”
The question is quiet, loaded. Not inappropriate—just intimate in a way that feels heavier than it should.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
I move at her pace down the hall, my knee protesting quietly with each step, upset with me for so much use without a brace this evening.
The house creaks like it’s listening. Her room smells like clean laundry and the lavender lotion she keeps on her nightstand. She sits on the edge of the bed, hands twisting in the blanket again.
I linger by the door. Give her space.
She stares at the floor. Then—
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The words land low and steady, not dramatic. Not flirtatious.
Just honest.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I don’t move closer, but I don’t step back either.
I nod once. “Okay.”
She looks up, surprised. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat. “I can stay.”
Her shoulders sag with relief so immediate it almost hurts to watch.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I sit on the chair by her desk at first, keeping my distance. But when she shifts under the blanket, curling inward, I can feel the pull between us like gravity recalibrating.
After a minute, she speaks again. “You don’t have to sit all the way over there.”
I hesitate before crossing the room slowly and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her. The mattress dips. Heat blooms between us.
She exhales and leans, just slightly, until her shoulder brushes my arm.
Not accidental.
I freeze.
She doesn’t pull away.
My body is hyperaware now: the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her shirt, the way her breathing evens out just a fraction with mine nearby, the way my knee stops screaming because my brain has latched onto something else entirely.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “Better.”
The word does dangerous things to me.
She shifts again, this time resting her head against my shoulder. Fully. Trusting.
My hand lifts before I can stop it—hesitates in midair, giving her time to pull back.
She doesn’t.
So I let my arm settle around her shoulders, light, careful, like she might shatter if I breathe wrong.
She relaxes into me.
And I know that this is the moment I am royally fucked.
Her choosing me, allowing me to truly see her, when she’s at her most vulnerable.
And me staying, knowing exactly how much this is going to cost me.