24. Sloane #2
Pops pushes up with effort, breath catching. The walker is right there, and Logan steadies it automatically, adjusting it like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Easy,” Logan murmurs.
Pops exhales. “I am.”
He’s not. His steps are slow. Measured. Heavy in a way they never used to be.
They disappear down the hall.
I stand in the living room, arms crossed, staring at the empty space they left behind.
My chest aches with something I don’t want to name.
Because it’s not just Pops getting worse that hurts.
It’s watching Logan see it too.
It’s watching him carry it quietly, like he’s already planning for a world without Pops in it.
When Logan comes back, his face is tighter, eyes darker, like he had to swallow something down.
“How is he?” I ask, and I hate how my voice softens.
Logan’s gaze holds mine for a beat. “Settled.”
“Good,” I whisper.
Silence stretches, thick.
The TV murmurs in the background. Some sports show that no one is watching.
I can’t sit still in all of the emotions I’m feeling.
“I’m going outside,” I say abruptly, grabbing the ball by the wall like I planned it.
Logan’s eyes flick to the back door. “It’s dark.”
“Your point? It’s not freezing,” I snap, defensive. “It’s California. I’ll survive.”
Logan’s mouth twitches faintly. “Right. My bad.”
I step out onto the concrete. The night air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of grass and the faint salt of the ocean somewhere far off.
I bounce the ball once, the sound echoing in the quiet.
I shoot.
The ball hits the rim and bounces out.
Of course.
I grab it again and shoot.
Swish.
The net snaps softly, and my chest loosens a fraction like it matters.
“Your form is still trash.”
Logan’s voice comes from behind me, and I jerk—heart jumping.
He’s in the doorway, leaning on the frame like he belongs there.
“Excuse you,” I snap.
Logan steps out slowly, careful on his knee. “It’s true.”
I hold the ball against my hip. “Are you stalking me now?”
He shrugs. “You’re out here alone in the dark. I figured you could use supervision.”
“I don’t need supervision,” I mutter.
Logan’s gaze flicks to my face, softening. “No. You need a break.”
My chest tightens.
I turn away and dribble once, buying time. “I don’t have time for breaks.”
“You keep saying that,” he says quietly.
I shoot again—too hard.
It rims out.
Logan huffs a breath. “Stop rushing your release like you’re afraid of missing.”
I glare. “I’m not afraid of missing.”
His gaze pins me. “Liar.”
Heat flares behind my eyes.
I swallow it down and set my feet the way he said.
I shoot.
Swish.
Logan’s mouth twitches like he noticed the shift. “Again.”
I shoot again.
Swish.
I glance at him, annoyed. “Okay, so maybe your advice isn’t complete garbage.”
He lifts a brow. “Thank you.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late for that,” he says.
The quiet settles, but it isn’t suffocating out here.
It’s just…present.
I cradle the ball, staring at the rim. “If we lose Friday, it’s over.”
Logan’s voice stays steady. “Then you win.”
I scoff. “That’s not how it works.”
Logan steps closer, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to be there. Not close enough to corner me.
“It’s how you work,” he says.
My throat tightens.
I hate how simple he makes it sound.
I stare at him, then the house behind him, then back at him. “Why are you being…normal?”
Logan’s mouth twitches, humorless. “Because if I say the thing we’re both thinking, you’ll bolt.”
I freeze.
“You have no idea what I’m thinking,” I snap, because snapping is safer.
“I do, though.” Logan’s gaze flicks toward the house, then back to me.
“You’re thinking that none of this is fair,” he says quietly. “And you’re allowed to be pissed about it.”
My chest cracks.
I hate it. I hate how my eyes burn.
I look away fast. “I’m not pissed.”
Logan lets out a soft huff. “Sloane.”
My pulse stutters at my name in his mouth.
He steps one fraction closer, and the air between us thins.
“You don’t have to earn being loved,” he says, low.
I scoff, because if I let that land, I’ll fall apart. “Are you quoting a self-help book now?”
“No,” Logan says. “I’m talking.”
My throat goes dry.
I clutch the ball like it can keep me upright. “You shouldn’t.”
His gaze drops briefly to my hands, then back to my eyes. “Why?”
“Because everything is—” My voice catches. I shove it down hard. “Because it’s bad timing.”
Logan’s mouth twitches, almost sad. “There’s never going to be good timing.”
I laugh once, sharp. “Cameron will murder you.”
Logan nods like that’s a known fact. “Probably.”
“And I’ll let him,” I mutter, but my voice shakes.
Logan’s gaze holds mine. “Do you want me to go inside?”
I could say yes.
I should say yes.
But I don’t.
My voice barely works. “No.”
Logan’s eyes go dark.
He doesn’t move fast. He just closes the last inch of space slowly—like he’s giving me every chance to back out.
His hand lifts, hovering near my waist.
Waiting. Asking.
I swallow hard and nod once.
That’s all it takes.
Logan’s hand settles on my hip, warm through my hoodie, steady. Not grabbing. Just anchoring.
Then he leans in and kisses me.
Slow.
Hot in a way that makes my knees want to fold.
Not frantic like the first time—no shock, no surprise.
This one is chosen.
Wanted.
His mouth moves against mine with a controlled kind of hunger that makes my brain go blank. His thumb presses lightly at my hip, pulling me closer, and my hands, the traitors they are, slide up his chest and curl into his hoodie like I need something solid.
Logan exhales against my mouth like it would hurt him to stop.
So he doesn’t.
The kiss deepens, still slow, still deliberate, but heavier—more certain. Like he’s choosing this with both hands.
I make a small sound I hate, and Logan’s grip tightens just a fraction, his other hand coming up to cup my jaw.
His touch is careful.
But his mouth isn’t.
His mouth feels like want.
It feels like relief.
It feels like the only thing in weeks that hasn’t asked me to be strong.
He breaks the kiss for half a second, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
Logan’s mouth brushes mine again, softer. “You are.”
My throat tightens. “Logan…”
He kisses me once more—slower, devastating—then pulls back just enough to look at me.
His eyes are dark, intense, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t see pity in them.
I don’t see fear.
I see myself.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says quietly. “I’m just—”
He swallows.
His voice drops. “I’m here.”
My chest caves.
I hate it.
I whisper, raw, “This doesn’t make it easier.”
Logan’s thumb brushes my cheek. “I know.”
A soft cough carries from inside the house—Pops shifting in his sleep.
We both still immediately.
Reality snaps back into place.
Logan’s eyes flick toward the window, then back to me. “We should go in.”
I swallow hard, breath still tangled. “Yeah.”
Neither of us moves right away.
Because going back inside means the countdown again.
It means the binder and the meds and the careful voices.
Logan’s hand squeezes my hip once, gently. “Friday,” he murmurs. “You’re going to win.”
I scoff weakly. “You don’t know that.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “I know you. That’s enough.”
My throat tightens.
I step back before I do something reckless, like drag him into the dark and forget the world exists.
Logan lets me go without a fight.
He just watches me like he’s trying to memorize my face in this light.
I hug the ball to my chest and head toward the door.
At the threshold, I pause without turning around.
“Logan,” I say quietly.
“Yeah,” he answers immediately.
My voice is barely there. “Don’t disappear on me.”
Silence. Then he says, softer than I’m ready for, “Never.”
I nod once, throat tight, and step back into the house—heart racing, mouth still burning, the weight still there…
But now with something else under it.
Not hope.
Hope feels too fragile.
Just the knowledge that for a few minutes, under the porch light, I wasn’t alone.