Chapter 40 Logan #2
Her eyes flutter shut for a second.
Then she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since 4:54 a.m. on April 6.
Behind us, the living room creaks.
I glance toward the doorway.
Cameron stands there, one hand braced on the frame like he’s holding himself upright by sheer spite. His hoodie hangs off him wrong—like he threw it on out of obligation, not comfort. His eyes are red, but his jaw is locked, working like anger is the only thing keeping him from breaking in half.
His gaze lands on Sloane in my arms.
Then it lands on me.
Something sharp flickers there. Not surprise.
Awareness.
Like a door in his head just swung open, and he doesn’t like what he sees on the other side.
“Slo,” he says, voice rough.
Sloane lifts her head off my chest, swiping at her cheeks like she can wipe the grief away with her hands.
Cameron steps into the kitchen, then stops, eyes cutting down the hall toward Pops’s room before snapping away again. His throat bobs.
“You drink anything?” he asks her, too briskly.
Sloane shakes her head.
Cameron’s gaze flicks to the glass on the counter—the torn electrolyte packet beside it—and something tight crosses his face. He clears his throat like that fixes it.
“Drink it,” he says.
Sloane nods and takes a small sip, shoulders trembling.
Cameron watches her for a beat too long, then his eyes swing back to me.
His jaw shifts again, harder this time, like he’s chewing through words he wants to spit.
“You,” he says.
My spine straightens automatically.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. There’s something in his tone that carries the weight of all the years I’ve eaten dinner at his table and slept down his hallway and called his dad Pops like I had any right to.
“I need air,” he says, clipped. “I can’t—” His mouth twists. He starts again, rougher, “I’m going out for a bit. I can't sleep here tonight. I’ll be back in the morning.”
Sloane’s eyes widen, panic flashing. “Cam—”
He cuts his gaze to her immediately, softening just a fraction. “Slo. I’m not leaving you. I just…can’t be in this house right now.”
Her throat works. She nods, brittle.
Cameron’s eyes return to me.
The softness is gone.
His jaw works like he wants to say ten different things, and none of them are safe.
“Don’t let her be alone,” he says finally. Not a request. A command he hates having to give.
“I won’t,” I say.
Cameron holds my gaze, and I feel it—the warning under it. The calculation. The way he’s filing this away for later when grief isn’t taking up all the oxygen.
He nods once, sharp. “Good.”
Then he turns and walks out, and the front door closes behind him with a quiet, final click that makes the whole house feel emptier.
Sloane stares at the door like it betrayed her too.
“I hate this,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say softly.
Her shoulders shake once, and she presses the sweatshirt tighter to her chest like she can squeeze him back into existence.
I step closer and hold out my hand. “Come on. Let’s go lie down.”
She blinks up at me like she doesn’t trust her legs.
Then she slides her fingers into mine.
This time I don’t hesitate.
I lace them with hers—slow, deliberate—like I’m telling her body something her brain can’t accept yet.
I’m here. I’ve got you. You don’t have to float alone.
We walk down the hallway together.
Pops’s door is closed.
The sight of it makes her breath hitch so hard it’s almost a sob.
I squeeze her hand. Once. Twice.
“Not tonight,” I murmur, low enough that only she hears.
Sloane nods like she’s giving herself permission.
Inside her room, the air still smells faintly like her shampoo and steam. The lamp on her nightstand casts a warm circle of light that doesn’t know what happened today.
Sloane sits on the edge of the bed, towel gone now, wearing Pops’s sweatshirt, swallowing against the lump in her throat like she’s trying to keep it all contained.
It doesn’t work.
Her face crumples.
A broken sound slips out.
She clamps her lips together, angry at herself for it.
“Hey,” I whisper, moving closer. “You don’t have to—”
“I can’t,” she chokes out, and then the rest caves in, spilling out of her in shaking sobs like her body waited until Cameron left to finally let it happen.
My heart lurches.
I sit beside her and pull her into me, and she goes willingly—curling into my chest like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“Breathe,” I murmur, kissing her temple. “Just breathe.”
She tries. Fails. Tries again.
Her hands clutch my shirt like she’s terrified I’ll disappear too.
I don’t tell her it’ll be okay.
I don’t promise tomorrow will hurt less.
I just slide us down onto the bed, easing her with me, careful and slow until we’re lying on our sides.
I tug the blanket over us both.
Sloane curls into me automatically, her head finding the center of my chest like it’s muscle memory, like my heartbeat is the only rhythm she can tolerate right now.
“Right here,” I whisper. “Stay right here.”
Her face presses into me, damp and hot, and she cries like she’s been holding it back for months. Her whole body shakes with it.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist, keeping her close, anchoring her.
Every time her breath catches, I stroke her back.
Every time she shudders, I kiss her hair.
Every time she tries to apologize, I murmur, “No,” against her skin until she stops.
Her tears soak my shirt.
I don’t care.
I want them to.
I want her grief to have somewhere to go besides swallowing her whole.
Eventually, her sobs soften into smaller, exhausted sounds.
Her breathing evens out in uneven little spurts.
She doesn’t stop hurting.
But she starts to fall asleep anyway—because bodies do that when they’ve run out of ways to stay upright.
Her fingers remain fisted in my shirt.
Her forehead rests beneath my chin.
And when her tears finally slow to quiet hiccups, I press my lips to her hair and whisper the only thing that matters.
“I’m here,” I repeat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sloane doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
But her hand tightens once against my chest, like she heard me.
And in the dark, with the house hollowed out around us and Cameron somewhere out breathing anger into the night, I hold her while she cries herself to sleep—head on my heart—like if I don’t let go, I can keep at least one thing from breaking.