Chapter 19 Sloane #2
I glare. “Stop.”
He holds up his hands again. “Sorry.”
Silence settles.
The house hums around us.
The fridge. The clock. Pops’s breathing down the hall.
My body starts to shake again, subtle but real.
Logan notices. Of course he does.
He stands slowly, careful with his knee, and shifts his weight like he’s thinking through every movement.
My spine goes rigid. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “I’m just—” He gestures toward the counter. “You left the cabinet open.”
I blink.
I glance.
The cabinet door is, in fact, hanging open slightly, like I forgot it existed the second I saw him.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Logan reaches past me to close it, but he doesn’t touch me. He gives me space, like he’s learned.
The restraint makes my chest ache.
When he steps back, his knee brushes the edge of the counter, and he winces.
I watch him before I can stop myself. “Does it hurt?”
Logan’s gaze flicks to mine. “Yeah.”
I swallow. “Then why are you standing?”
He shrugs. “Because you looked like you were about to throw the water bottle at my head.”
I huff. “I would have hit you.”
“Sure,” he says, and there’s that quiet confidence again.
I hate that it makes me smile. Just barely. A crack.
Logan sees it.
His eyes soften like he’s holding something fragile.
My smile disappears immediately, replaced by irritation because I don’t like being seen.
I turn away and yank open a drawer—too fast, too hard.
Inside are Pops’s meds. A pill organizer. A blood pressure cuff. A thermometer. The mundane evidence of reality.
My chest tightens.
Logan’s voice is careful. “You doing meds?”
“Yeah,” I say, too clipped. “Because someone has to.”
“I can—” he starts.
“No,” I cut in.
Logan goes quiet.
I pull out the pill organizer and start sorting automatically—muscle memory, routine, control. It calms me the way basketball does. Step by step. Compartment by compartment. Morning. Afternoon. Evening.
Logan watches from the table, not hovering, not pushing.
Just…present.
It annoys me.
It also—quietly—helps.
My hands move faster than my brain can spiral.
When I’m done, I slide the organizer back into the drawer and shut it.
Then I realize something and curse under my breath.
Logan’s brows lift. “What?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, then open the fridge again.
I scan the shelves.
No applesauce.
Pops takes his bigger pills with applesauce when his throat is irritated. It’s the only way he doesn’t gag, and he refuses to admit that’s the reason.
I stare at the empty spot where it should be, irritation flaring—at myself, at life, at the way tiny missing things can feel catastrophic when you’re already balancing on a ledge.
Logan’s voice is quiet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I repeat automatically.
Logan pushes back from the table slightly. “Sloane.”
My jaw tightens. “We’re out of applesauce.”
Logan blinks like he wasn’t expecting that. “Okay.”
I glare at him. “Okay doesn’t fix it.”
“I wasn’t—” He stops, then nods. “Sorry. Do you want me to—”
“No,” I cut in again.
Logan’s jaw tightens, frustration flickering. “You keep saying no like you want me to vanish.”
My chest tightens. “I—”
He exhales. “Never mind.”
He stands carefully, reaching for his crutch.
“What are you doing?” I ask sharply.
“Going to the store,” he says simply.
“No,” I snap. “Your knee—”
“I can do it,” he says, voice firm but not loud.
“You can barely walk to the kitchen,” I argue.
Logan’s eyes flash. “I walked to the kitchen fine.”
“You limped to the kitchen,” I correct.
He smirks faintly. “Same thing.”
“It’s not,” I snap, then stop because my voice is too loud and Pops is down the hall and this is exactly what I’m trying to avoid—noise, chaos, proof that I’m cracking.
Logan watches me, expression shifting softer. “I’m not trying to start something,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to help.”
Help.
That word makes my throat burn because help is what I want and what I hate.
Because wanting help means admitting I can’t carry this alone.
And I can’t.
I just don’t know how to say it without falling apart.
I swallow hard. “We can get it tomorrow.”
Logan’s gaze holds mine. “And if he needs it tonight?”
My chest tightens.
Because he’s right.
And I really hate it when he’s right.
I exhale slowly, forcing the anger down like it’s a physical thing I can swallow. “Fine.”
Logan stills. “Fine?”
“I’ll go,” I say quickly, because the idea of him driving somewhere alone with that knee makes my stomach twist into knots. “I’ll go get it.”
Logan’s brows lift. “You don’t have to.”
“Yes,” I say, voice clipped. “I do.”
Logan studies me for a beat, then nods once, like he’s choosing not to fight me on it.
“Okay,” he says—then winces, like he realized the word is banned.
I glare anyway.
He clears his throat. “Do you want me to come with you?”
My stomach flips.
The idea of being trapped in a car with him—alone, quiet, close—makes my pulse spike.
“No,” I say too fast.
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Right.”
I grab my keys off the hook, then stop, turning back.
Logan is leaning on his crutch, watching me with that careful expression again.
I hate that he looks like he’s trying to protect me from myself.
I hate that it works.
“Stay here,” I order.
Logan’s brows rise. “Bossy.”
“Someone has to be,” I shoot back.
His mouth curves faintly. “Yes, Coach.”
I glare, but it’s weaker this time.
I walk toward the front door, then pause.
Because my body is doing that thing again—hesitating like it wants to turn back. Like it wants to say something honest.
So I don’t.
I open the door, cold air rushing in.
And then I do something small. Stupid. Automatic.
I reach over the couch and grab Logan’s hoodie before tossing it at him.
Logan catches it on reflex, blinking.
“What’s this for?” he asks, confused.
“Your hoodie,” I say like he’s an idiot. “Let’s go.”
Logan stares at the garment, then at me.
Something warm flickers in his eyes.
Not smug.
Not teasing. Soft.
Like he understands exactly what I just did.
My cheeks burn. “Don’t make it weird.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Wasn’t going to.”
I narrow my eyes as I turn toward the door. “Good.”
He shocks me when his voice is much closer to my ear than it was a few seconds ago. “Let’s make sure to follow the speed limit on our little adventure, yeah?”
My heart stutters, but I roll my eyes on instinct. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Logan’s smile is all man, cocky and confident. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You talk too much. Let’s go.”
I open the door and head for my car, Logan chuckling but following behind me.
I’m not sure why I wanted him to come with me. I wasn't lying when I said I don’t have space for him.
Because the truth is—I don’t have space for anything.
But somehow, Logan keeps fitting into the cracks anyway.
And I’m starting to realize that might not be the worst thing.
It might be the only thing keeping me upright.