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I glance at the tray. New bottles. Neat little labels. But I know better. This isn’t just drowsiness. This is something deeper.

I reach over and rest my hand on his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“You look wiped out.”

“Don’t fuss.”

He always says that, but he doesn’t pull away this time, and that’s how I know it’s worse than he’s letting on.

I move behind him, adjusting the pillows like I’vedone a hundred times. He winces. It’s barely a hiss, but it makes my chest cave in.

“That hurt?”

He waves a hand like he’s swatting a fly. “Don’t start playing nurse.”

I don’t listen. I go into the bathroom, run a cloth under cool water, and wring it out. When I come back, he peeks at me like he’s expecting a lecture.

“What now?”

“Let me help,” I say, sitting again.

I dab the cloth to his forehead. He sighs, and I swear his whole body sinks an inch into the bed.

My hand moves slowly, brushing the cloth across his temples. He reaches up now and then, touching my wrist. Not to stop me, but to connect.

“You come all this way to watch me nap?”

“I missed your ugly mug.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?”

His mouth quirks, but his eyes are soft now, and damp at the corners. It guts me.

“How’s Rosie? Is she still babbling those half-words?”

“She’s started stringing syllables together,” I say, lips curling in a genuine smile. “She’s been asking for her Pop.”

A flicker of pride lights in his eyes, but the grin he tries for doesn’t quite reach full strength. “Guess I’m memorable to the kid.” He squeezes my hand lightly. “I’m proud of you, you know. I haven’t told you that in a while.”

He tells me all the time.

“I’m not doing anything special. Most days I’m winging it.”

He shakes his head, that subtle fatherly patience inplace. “You’re living your life, kid. Not letting everything weigh you down.” A shadow crosses his features, and he turns his head away. “Wish your old man could see it that way.”

My lips thin. Dad’s a topic I’d rather not open. “We’re not talking about him right now.”

Grandpa doesn’t protest. “How’s Wes?”

The question catches me off guard.

“He’s good. Working a lot. Still trying to do everything himself.”

Grandpa hums. A beat later, he opens one eye, just enough to side-eye me before closing it again. “He’s falling in love with you, you know.”

I choke on air. “Grandpa!”

“Oh, stop it. He is. I talked with him.” Yeah, a talk neither of them will tell me about. “That man doesn’t just appreciate what you do, Lena. He admires you, respects you. I always know a man on the tip of falling.”