“Mum can share the sofa bed with you,” I say coolly.
“Oh no. Far too crowded,” Ellenor says. “I sleep like a starfish. Besides, two people per floor is a more appropriate division of space and resources.”
“This isn’tSurvivor,” I mutter.
“I’ll be staying downstairs with you, Lily,” Mum interjects, shooting Ellenor a warning glare. “At least for a few days.”
“I’ll take the couch regardless,” Brandon says, rising to his feet. He looks exhausted, rubbing his eyes. The past week has worn him out too. “I’ll leave you to settle in. The bed has fresh sheets.”
“But not for long,” Ellenor whispers, eyes gleaming.
“Oh, get over yourself,” I snap.
Thankfully, I don’t think Brandon heard her that time. He’s already moving down the hallway, the living room door shutting after him.
Ellenor is still snickering, pleased with her meddling.
Two can play at that game.
“Mum,” I say sweetly, “did you know Ellenor has a boyfriend?”
“Really?” Mum asks at once.
After a lengthy interrogation that I only half pay attention to, yawning and trying to stay awake, we leave the kitchen.
The hallway is dim. I didn’t expect this—don’t think I’m ready for it. Sleeping in Brandon’s room. His sheets. His pillow. The place he sleeps. The fact that he isn’t there makes it worse. Like I’m an intruder.
I cling to the crutches as I limp to his door, Mum in front, ready to steady me, Ellenor ambling behind with a bag of my belongings.
“I’m right here, darling,” Mum murmurs, eyeing me as I wobble. “I won’t let you fall.”
“Imight,” Ellenor jokes.
I snort despite myself. I’m reluctantly grateful for her humour. It stops me from drowning in self-pity.
Mum opens the door to Brandon’s room, but I freeze, my pulse skittering.
“Well?” Ellenor prompts.
I manoeuvre the crutches over the threshold, each hop-thud of rubber on floorboards sounding far too loud. The room is warm and softly lit by the bedside lamp—Brandon must have left it on for me. His familiar scent greets me: clean, earthy, the faint coolness of damp cedar and crushed pine needles.
I never imagined I’d end up in Brandon’s room. Especially not like this, injured and leaning on crutches.
My chest goes tight.
“I’m just going to…brush my teeth,” I mumble, needing a minute to myself.
The en suite is cool and dim, compact and modern, all soft-grey tiles and a clear glass shower stall. A dark towel hangs neatly on the rail, and a black razor sits on the vanity beside men’s shaving cream. The sight is unmistakably masculine, sparking a tiny jolt of awareness in me—that this is his space.
There’s a faint trace of his cologne or shampoo in the air, fresh and understated. It catches my breath for a beat.
Being in here feels intimate. I’ve stepped into a part of his life I was never meant to see. And yet, nothing about it feels unwelcome.
I brace myself against the sink, the cornflower-blue porcelain cool under my palms, and glance at my reflection. My face is pale and shadowed, my blonde waves lying flat despite Mum’s help washing them this morning. I don’t look half as terrible as I feel, just muted, my mouth drawn down like I’ve forgotten how to smile.
Sleep will help, I promise myself.
I brush my teeth, splash cool water on my face, and remind myself to breathe.
