Chapter 44 Logan #2
I work the conditioner through her ends, detangling with my fingers first, then smoothing it down like I’m trying to convince her body it’s safe to soften. When I rinse, she tips her head back under the stream, eyes squeezed shut, face angled toward the water like she’s letting it hold her up.
And when she finally turns the water off, she sways.
Not dramatically. Not enough to fall.
Just enough for my instincts to snap tight.
I’m there before she can pretend she doesn’t need me, one hand at her elbow, the other at her waist, steadying her as she steps onto the bathmat.
“Slo—”
“I’m fine,” she starts automatically, but it comes out weaker than she means it to.
I don’t call her on it. I just grab the towel and wrap it around her shoulders, then another one for her hair.
“Sit,” I say softly, nodding toward the closed toilet lid.
She blinks at me like she’s about to fight the suggestion out of pure habit.
Then she sits.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, quickly running a towel over my soaked clothes before running to grab a fresh pair of sweats from my bag.
Kicking out of my pants, I slide the sweats on before I return to the bathroom.
Grabbing another towel, I crouch in front of her and start drying her hair with the towel, careful not to tug. Her skin is flushed from the heat. Her lashes are darker with water. For anyone else, she’d look like a girl who took a shower.
To me, she looks like a girl trying to remember how to be a person.
“You can stop doing all this,” she whispers.
My throat tightens. “I want to do this. Let someone be the one to take care of you for once. Let me be that person for you.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s something raw there—something that feels too close to gratitude, too close to surrender.
I look away first, because if I stare too long, I’ll say things I’m not ready to put in the air.
I dry her arms, her shoulders, the back of her neck. I keep it practical, gentle. I keep my touch like a promise I can actually keep.
When her hair is damp instead of dripping, I reach into the drawer and pull out her brush.
Sloane watches it like it’s a weapon.
I lift my brows. “May I?”
She hesitates.
Then she nods again.
I move behind her and brush slowly, starting at the ends like my mom taught me when I was little—back before she stopped being my mom and started being something else.
I catch a snag and ease it out without yanking. Sloane’s breathing goes uneven for a second, like she almost cried just from the patience of it.
I keep brushing.
Stroke after stroke until her hair falls smooth down her back, dark and clean and soft.
“Tea?” I ask.
She frowns slightly, like she’s trying to remember what tea is for. What comfort feels like.
“I don’t want—”
“You don’t have to drink it,” I cut in gently. “Just…hold it. Warm your hands. Trick your body into thinking it’s okay to sleep.”
Her lips part like she might argue again, but she doesn’t have the energy.
Another nod.
I slip out of the bathroom, leaving the door cracked so she doesn’t feel shut in, and head to the kitchen.
The house is too quiet.
It’s always too quiet now.
I fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and stand there with my hands on the counter, staring at nothing while it heats.
The window over the sink reflects me back—tired eyes, jaw too tight, shoulders carrying a weight that doesn’t belong to a twenty-two-year-old kid with a busted knee and a college scholarship.
My phone flashes in my mind like a flare.
Chicago.
I swallow hard and force it down.
Not now.
Not when she’s still dripping on the bathroom floor, letting me brush her hair because she can’t do it herself.
Not when this house is missing its spine, and I’m trying, and failing, to hold it up with my own.
The kettle whistles, sharp and sudden, and I flinch like it accused me.
I pour the water over a chamomile bag, add a little honey because I remember seeing her do that once, and carry the mug back down the hall like it’s something fragile.
Sloane’s in her room now, wearing a big T-shirt and soft shorts, hair brushed out and hanging loose. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, towel folded neatly beside her like she did it on autopilot.
She looks up when I enter.
For a second, her eyes soften, just a fraction.
It guts me.
I hand her the mug carefully.
Her fingers wrap around it, and she inhales the steam like she’s trying to breathe something other than grief into her lungs.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Anytime.”
She takes a small sip. Winces a little. Then holds it in her lap, both hands cupped around it like she’s clinging to the warmth.
I move to pull her blankets back, turning down the bed like it’s a normal night, like Pops isn’t missing from the world.
Sloane’s voice is small. “Are you…staying?”
I pause.
This is the part where I should be careful.
This is the part where I should think about Cameron and lines and respect and the fact that I’m living in his family’s house like I always have—except now everything is different.
But I look at her face, and I already know the answer.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “If you want me to.”
Sloane’s throat works.
She nods.
I help her slide under the covers, not because she can’t, but because she looks like she’s made of paper right now—thin and fragile and one wrong move away from tearing.
I set the tea on the nightstand within reach and pull the blanket up around her shoulders.
Her eyes flutter closed for a second.
Then open again.
Like she’s afraid to let herself go.
I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that she can feel me there, and brush my knuckles lightly against her forehead—soft. Familiar.
“I’m right here,” I whisper.
Her breath catches.
And then—
The front door opens.
A voice carries down the hallway, low and tired.
“Logan?”
My whole body stills.
Sloane’s eyes snap open, panic flaring instantly like she’s been burned.
Cameron’s footsteps are heavier than usual. Slower. Like even walking through his own house takes effort now.
I stand quietly and step into the doorway, half blocking the view, instinctive, protective.
Cameron appears at the end of the hall.
He’s in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, jaw working like he’s grinding down something sharp inside him. His eyes flick to me, then past me toward Sloane’s room.
He sees the light on.
Sees me standing there.
Sees…enough.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice controlled in a way that’s never a good sign.
I keep my tone steady. “She showered. I made her some tea to see if that would help her relax.”
Cameron’s gaze slides over my shoulder.
Sloane is propped up against her pillows, hair down, face still damp from the shower. She looks small in a way she never does on the court.
Cameron’s expression shifts—pain, tenderness, then something darker flickering under it.
He swallows once, hard.
Then he looks back at me, and his voice drops even lower.
“I need to talk to you.”
The way he says it isn’t a request. It’s a warning.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Cameron’s jaw flexes again.
His eyes cut once more to Sloane, like he’s reminding himself why he’s trying to keep it together. Then he steps back down the hall, turning toward the living room.
“Now,” he adds roughly.
I glance at Sloane. Her eyes are wide, glossy. Her hand tightens around the blanket like she’s bracing for impact.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, barely moving my lips. “I’ll be right back.”
And I follow Cameron into the dark, quiet heart of the house, already knowing whatever comes next is going to hurt.