Chapter 12 Sloane
SLOANE
The shower is the only place I can fall apart without an audience.
It’s the only place I let myself lose control.
Steam fogs the mirror, turning my reflection into a blur—featureless, anonymous. The water is hot enough to sting, but I keep it there anyway because pain is easier when it’s physical. Predictable. Contained. Something I can turn on and off.
Grief doesn’t turn off.
Grief just waits until you’re alone and then tries to drown you quietly.
I press my forehead to the tile and let my breath shake out in short bursts, swallowed by the rush of water. I don’t sob. I don’t scream. I don’t do anything dramatic.
I just…leak.
Because I don’t have time for a breakdown. If I fall apart, who’s going to hold this house up?
Not Cameron, he’s already halfway out the door every time the air gets heavy.
Not Pops, he’s the reason the air is heavy.
And Logan—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I turn the water colder until my skin protests. It forces my brain back into my body. Forces control.
I shut the water off and wrap myself in a towel, standing there for a second with my palms pressed to my face.
Okay. Okay, Sloane. Get it together.
The hallway is cool against my damp skin. The house is too quiet—thin in that way that makes everything feel like it could shatter if you breathe wrong.
Pops’s bedroom door is shut.
Good.
If Pops hears me lose it, he’ll try to comfort me. He’ll spend whatever time he has left taking care of me, and I refuse to steal that from him.
I walk into my room, already planning my next steps—emails, calls, trial searches, anything that feels like a rope.
Then I stop.
There’s a glass of water on my nightstand…again.
Anger sparks hot and immediate, because clinging to that is easier than admitting that him being nice is more dangerous than him being an asshole.
I snatch the glass and stare at it like it personally offended me.
Then I freeze.
Because he didn’t knock on the bathroom door while I was in the shower. He didn’t hover outside as if he’s entitled to my grief.
He just…left it waiting for me in my room.
Like he understands my body will need it later even if my pride wants to pretend it won’t.
I set the glass down again, harder than necessary. The small clink echoes through the room like a warning.
I dress fast—sweats, hoodie, hair shoved into a bun that isn’t messy so much as a violent mess on the top of my head that I’ll regret when I have to brush it later. I check my phone because I can’t help myself.
Three emails about hospice services.
Two messages from Jade with clinical trial links she’s already started digging into.
My throat tightens.
I can’t do soft right now.
I leave my room and walk into the living room like my spine is made of steel.
Logan is on the couch, leg elevated, brace still on, one crutch propped against the coffee table like he’s trying to make “progress” look casual. He looks up when he sees me, eyes flicking over my face like he’s taking inventory.
I hate that he notices things.
I hate that he’s good at it.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer.
I go straight to the kitchen and open a cabinet like I need something. I don’t. I just need my hands busy so I don’t think about the fact that hospice paperwork is sitting on our counter as if it belongs there.
Logan’s voice carries from behind me. “You find the water?”
My fingers tighten on the cabinet handle.
Of course he heard me.
Of course Logan Brooks—human complication, permanent inconvenience, the guy I’ve spent two years trying to hate properly—heard me crack and decided to insert himself into it. Decided to take care of me.
“I didn’t ask for it,” I say flatly.
A beat.
Then, “Yeah,” he replies. “I know.”
That should annoy me more than it does.
I close the cabinet and lean my hip against the counter, arms crossing without my permission. “So what was that? Your charity moment? You trying to rack up good-boy points while you’re stuck here?”
He stares at me, unbothered. “If I wanted good-boy points, I’d be doing dishes.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t do dishes.”
“Exactly,” he says. “I’m clearly not committed to the image.”
I scoff, but the corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it.
He catches it. His mouth twitches, too, like he’s filing it away.
I glare harder. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asks, innocent in the most irritating way.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap.
“Like what?”
“Like you…” I search for the word and hate that I can’t find it fast enough. “Like you’re not annoying me by breathing.”
His brows lift. “Wow. That’s brutal.”
“Good,” I say. “Suffer.”
He shifts slightly, wincing when his knee adjusts, then looks at me like he’s offended on principle. “For the record, I’m still annoying. I’m just multi-dimensional.”
“God,” I mutter. “You’ve been trapped in this house for five minutes, and you’re already delusional.”
“Five minutes?” he repeats. “Sloane, I’ve basically lived here my whole life. This is my origin story.”
I glare at him over the island. “You do not have an origin story.”
His eyes brighten, like I just handed him a ball and told him not to shoot. “Sure I do. It starts with Cameron telling me I sucked at football.”
My chest tightens despite myself.
Because that’s true.
Cameron found him in fourth grade on the elementary field, throwing a wobbly spiral like he’d never seen a football before. Cameron laughed so hard he fell over. Then he stayed. Then he fixed it.
“Cameron tells everyone they suck,” I say.
“Yeah,” Logan agrees. “But he means it with love.”
I roll my eyes and grab a mug just to have something in my hands. “Pops asleep?”
“Yeah,” Logan says. His voice dips a fraction. “He crashed pretty hard.”
Pretty hard.
Like the day took something out of him.
I swallow. “Cameron?”
Logan’s mouth tightens. “He left.”
Of course he did. The familiar sting rises, hot and sharp.
Not because I don’t understand my brother’s fear. I do.
Because I’m the one who stays.
Always the one who stays.
“He’ll be back,” Logan adds.
I bark a humorless laugh. “You don’t know that.”
Logan holds my gaze. “Yeah,” he says calmly. “I do.”
My arms cross tighter. “Why?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Because he loves him. And because Cameron can run all he wants, but he always comes back to this house.”
That last part lands somewhere deeper than I want it to.
I sip my water like it’s a weapon. “You’re awfully confident for someone who can’t even walk without a stick.”
His brows lift. “It’s called a crutch.”
“Same thing,” I say, because I’m petty.
He snorts. “And you’re awfully mouthy for someone who’s been crying in the shower.”
The mug freezes halfway to my mouth.
My heart stutters.
Heat floods my face so fast it’s humiliating.
“What did you just say?” My voice is low and dangerous.
Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen. “I said you’re mouthy.”
I narrow my eyes. “No. The other part.”
He looks at me for a long second, like he’s deciding whether to poke the bear again.
Then he says, too casually, “Relax. I didn’t hear anything.”
I take one step toward the living room, mug in hand, feeling like I could throw the entire glass at his head and sleep just fine afterward.
“You’re lying.”
Logan lifts a hand. “I’m not—”
“You heard,” I bite.
His mouth twitches. “Okay. Maybe I heard the shower. Crazy thing, running water makes a sound.”
I glare. “You know what I mean.”
He leans back against the couch, posture loose like he isn’t actively pushing every one of my buttons. “Sloane, I don’t want to fight about this.”
I laugh once, sharply. “Then stop talking.”
He pauses, eyes narrowing. “That’s not how conversations work.”
“Great,” I snap. “Then let’s not have one.”
I turn back toward the kitchen, anger buzzing across my skin because it’s easier than admitting the real truth:
I’m embarrassed.
I’m embarrassed he might’ve heard me break.
I’m embarrassed I needed the water.
I’m embarrassed my grief has witnesses.
My phone buzzes on the counter, the screen lighting up with another email.
Hospice Intake: Next Steps
My stomach lurches.
Logan’s voice comes quieter behind me. “You’ve been looking at trials.”
I stiffen. “Don’t.”
“I’m not judging,” he says.
“You are,” I shoot back immediately. “You’re standing there thinking I’m in denial. That I’m delusional.”
He’s silent for a beat.
Then, “No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m standing here thinking you’re the only person I know who could turn grief into a to-do list. It’s terrifying.”
My throat tightens. I hate that my eyes burn.
I keep my back to him. “It’s called being productive.”
“It’s called refusing to sit down,” he counters.
I whip around, anger flashing. “And what exactly do you suggest? I sit here and wait? Like it’s some kind of—”
I stop because the word ending sits on my tongue, and I can’t say it.
Logan’s gaze holds mine. He doesn’t soften. He doesn’t pity.
He just says, “I’m not suggesting you stop. I’m suggesting you eat something while you do it.”
I stare at him, thrown.
That’s…annoyingly reasonable.
I hate that too.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, needing some semblance of control.
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You’re always hungry. You just forget when you’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
His brows lift. “You’re opening hospice emails like they’re spam.”
I glare. “They kind of are.”
He snorts, then winces like laughing hurts his knee. “Okay, that was good.”
I hate that I made him laugh.
I hate that the sound loosens something in my chest.
I force my chin up. “I have things to do.”
Logan nods once, then gestures toward the counter. “Then do them. But stop acting like you’re the only one who can.”
My throat tightens. “You can’t help.”
He gives me a flat look. “You don’t know what I can do.”
I scoff. “Please. The only thing you’re qualified to do is limp dramatically and make everything about you.”
He gasps, hand to his chest like I stabbed him. “Wow. I would never make anything about me.”
I glare. “You literally just did.”
He smirks. “And yet, here you are, still talking to me.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Because he’s right.
Because the banter is the only thing that feels even remotely normal right now.
Because fighting with Logan is familiar in a world that just turned unrecognizable.
I exhale sharply and grab my phone, shoving it toward him like I’m handing him a grenade. “Fine,” I snap. “If you’re going to be in my space, at least be useful. This trial in LA—tell me if this exclusion criteria means what I think it means.”
Logan’s eyes flick to the screen. Surprise flashes for half a second.
Then he pushes himself up carefully, grabbing his crutch, moving toward the island like he’s trying not to show how much it costs him.
He leans over the counter, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
My body goes rigid on instinct.
His gaze stays on the phone like he doesn’t notice.
Of course he notices.
He’s Logan.
He just pretends not to.
“Okay,” he mutters, scanning the page. “Yeah. This is…bullshit.”
“Language,” I say automatically.
He shoots me a look. “Says the girl who just called hospice emails spam.”
I glare. “Don’t push it.”
His mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He scrolls, reading, frowning, and for a second—just a second—I’m not alone in it. Not alone in the search. Not alone in the impossible.
The grief is still there, and so is the fear.
But there’s also Logan beside me, stubborn and irritating and steady, refusing to run even when I wish he would.
I don’t thank him.
I don’t soften.
I don’t give him an inch.
But I don’t step away either.
And that feels like progress—small and furious and fragile.
Which is probably the only kind we’re going to get.