Chapter 29 Logan
LOGAN
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the quiet.
Not the normal kind—the kind you get when a house is asleep and the day hasn’t started asking for things yet.
This is after quiet. The kind that settles in when something bad happens and nobody wants to be the first person to make a sound loud enough to admit it.
Sloane is curled in front of me, her back against my chest, blanket twisted around her hips. Her hair is everywhere—soft and dark, the kind of mess that looks accidental until you realize she’s the type of person who never does anything accidentally.
Her breathing is slow. Even. For the first time since last night, she looks like her body isn’t bracing for impact.
My arm is heavy around her shoulders, and my brain immediately starts doing what it always does when something feels too close to good.
Don’t.
Don’t get comfortable.
Don’t attach a meaning to this before she does.
Don’t forget whose house this is. Whose family this is. Who I owe everything to.
My throat tightens, and I stare at the ceiling because it’s easier than staring at her and letting myself think about what it felt like when she said don’t think.
When she chose a bad idea and dragged me into it with her.
When I didn’t stop it.
I’m not proud of how fast I wanted it.
I’m not ashamed either.
I just…don’t trust anything that happens at two in the morning after you’ve watched someone you love hit a hospital bed.
Sloane shifts, her shoulder brushing my chest. She makes a small sound—half sigh, half something else—and my body reacts like it didn’t get the memo that this is complicated.
I go still.
Not because I don’t want her.
Because I do.
Because that’s the problem.
I ease my arm out from under her slowly and sit up.
My knee twinges—an old ache that’s more warning than pain now.
I don’t sleep in the brace anymore, not at home, not unless I overdo it.
But the hospital means long walks and hard floors, and I’ve learned the hard way that adrenaline makes you stupid.
Sloane doesn’t wake. Thank God.
I grab my shirt from the chair and pull it on quietly, then slip into the hall and pull her door shut behind me until it clicks.
The house smells like lemon cleaner and yesterday’s fear.
The living room is still staged with things that don’t belong—folded equipment, boxes, a shower chair leaned against the wall like someone left a threat here overnight.
I look at it for half a second.
Then I look away.
The kitchen is dim; the only sound is the hum of the fridge. I open cabinets I’ve opened a thousand times and start the coffee because it’s something I can do that doesn’t require thinking.
The machine gurgles, loud in the stillness, and the smell hits right after—dark and warm and normal.
Normal is a trick.
Still, I pour one mug.
Then another.
I add creamer to the second without thinking because if Sloane doesn’t drink something, she’ll run herself into the ground and call it discipline.
I’m rinsing the spoon when I feel her before I see her.
She’s in the doorway, wearing my sweatshirt. Hair shoved into a messy knot, face washed but still tired, eyes sharp like she woke up and remembered she’s not allowed to fall apart.
Her gaze flicks to the second mug.
Then to me.
“Did you sleep?” she asks.
I shrug. “Enough.”
She stares like she knows that’s not true.
I don’t give her the chance to argue. “Go shower.”
Her brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“Go shower,” I repeat, like I’m talking to a teammate who’s trying to tell me he doesn’t need ice.
Sloane’s mouth tightens in that familiar way—her first instinct is always to push back. Then she exhales, slowly.
“You’re bossy,” she says.
“You like bossy,” I reply automatically.
I regret it the second it leaves my mouth because it’s too close to…something.
Sloane’s eyes narrow like she’s deciding whether to stab me with her words.
Instead, she takes her mug, wraps both hands around it, and mutters, “I hate you.”
It’s not convincing.
I tilt my head. “Sure you do.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile and refuses.
She turns away first. “Fine. Shower.”
She walks past me, and her fingers brush my side—small and brief, like she can pretend it didn’t happen.
It doesn’t feel accidental.
I stay at the counter until I hear her bedroom door close again, then I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since last night.
And then my brain does what it does best.
It spirals privately.
I wipe the counter. I straighten the mail. I rinse mugs that are already clean. Busy hands. Quiet head. That’s the goal.
It doesn’t work.
Because Cameron is going to find out.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. Cameron always finds out. He has this sixth sense for anything that threatens his family.
And I’m his best friend.
Which means I’m supposed to be safe.
I’m supposed to be the guy who shows up, carries things, fixes the sink, makes dumb jokes, takes hits for his people.
Not the guy who sleeps in his little sister’s bed.
I press my palms against the counter and stare at the window over the sink. Outside, the sky is brightening like the world didn’t do anything wrong.
I hate the sky a little for that.
The shower turns on down the hall.
The sound steadies something in me—proof she’s moving, proof she’s functioning, proof she’s still here.
I grab my bag from my room, set it by the back door and wait. Inside are the basics, plus the knee brace. I don’t take it out yet. I just leave the bag on the floor and wait.
When Sloane comes back, her hair is damp and pulled into a ponytail. She looks cleaner, but not lighter. She’s already dressed, ready to go, like being prepared is her only kind of control.
“Let’s go,” she says.
I nod and reach for my bag. I pull the brace out and start strapping it on.
Sloane’s eyes flick to it. “You don’t need that.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Just…easier if I’m walking a lot.”
She watches me for a beat, then nods once like she accepts the excuse.
She doesn’t call me out for what it really is.
If I brace the knee, maybe I can brace everything else.
We walk out into the mild morning. The air is soft, not cold. The sun is already warm on the driveway.
The drive to the hospital is quiet. Sloane stares out the window like she’s watching the world pass and not seeing any of it.
Halfway there, her hand moves.
She doesn’t look at me when she reaches across the console.
Her fingers hook around mine for a second.
Not a hold.
A check-in.
Like tapping the wall in a dark room.
My thumb rubs the side of her finger once; it’s instinctive.
She doesn’t pull away.
That’s all.
It’s enough to make my chest tighten anyway.
At the hospital, we park, get out, and the building hits me the way it always does—glass, white light, antiseptic air you can almost taste.
In the parking lot, Sloane’s steps slow just a little.
Her hand finds mine again, quick and quiet.
We walk together until the automatic doors.
Then she lets go first.
Not cold. Not rejecting.
Just…practical.
We go inside.
Cameron is already there, sitting rigidly by Pops’s bed like he’s been holding his breath for hours. He stands when he sees Sloane, eyes scanning her face with that protective, relentless focus he’s always had.
Pops is awake, propped up against pillows. His left side still looks wrong—arm resting too still, the corner of his mouth lagging.
But his eyes are clear.
They land on Sloane and soften.
“Kiddo,” he says.
Sloane moves to his right side immediately, taking his hand. “Hi.”
Pops’s fingers curl around hers—weak but deliberate.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “At least you showered. I can’t smell you from a mile away anymore.”
Sloane huffs a breath. “Don’t start.”
Pops’s mouth quirks. “I’d never.”
I stay a step back, hands in my pockets, giving them the space they need. Pops looks at me over Sloane’s shoulder.
“Hey, kid,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer. “How’re you feeling?”
He makes a face. “Like I got hit by a truck, and the truck won.”
Cameron snorts, a sound that’s half laugh, half pain.
The doctor comes in not long after—neurology. Calm voice, practiced kindness. She checks Pops’s strength, his speech, his gaze. Talks about stability, monitoring, PT testing today to make sure he’s okay to swallow certain liquids without adding thickener to decrease the risk of choking.
“If everything continues to look good,” she says, “we may be able to discharge him tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
The word drops into the room like fragile glass.
Sloane nods like she can handle it.
Cameron asks the practical questions.
Pops makes a sarcastic comment about hating hospital food.
And me?
I stand there and try not to think about how “tomorrow” means bringing him home to a house with a shower chair waiting.
Try not to think about what the left side of his body not working means for Sloane’s denial.
Try not to think about how last night won’t stay a secret forever.
When it’s time to go, Sloane squeezes Pops’s hand one more time.
“We’ll be back later,” she says.
Pops nods. “Go eat. Both of you.”
“Yes, Coach,” Sloane mutters automatically, and Pops’s eyes crinkle with tired satisfaction.
Outside the room, in the hallway, Sloane slows once more.
Her hand brushes mine again—brief, light.
A touch that says I’m still standing.
I don’t say anything that would make it bigger than it is.
I just walk beside her.
And for now, that’s what I can promise.
Not forever.
Not vows.
Not declarations.
Just presence.
Just showing up.
Just making coffee in a quiet house and strapping on a brace before the hospital because some part of me still believes preparation can keep people safe.
Maybe it can’t.
But it’s what I’ve got.