They both groan, climbing beside Mum, sticking their heads in her face, covering most of the screen with their wild hair.
“So, the flat?” she asks, starting over.
“It’s nice. Really nice. I think you’ll like it if you come to visit.”
“Hmm,” she hums. “And what about your flatmate? Are you getting along well with her?”
“Her?!” Ellie asks, spitting the word as if she’s disgusted by the mere prospect of such a thing. “Lijah’s living with agirl?”
My shoulders shake with laughter, the tension in my body lessening as Mum takes the reins this once, not counting on me to be their parentandtheir brother. “Yes, love. It doesn’t matter what gender your brother’s flatmate is. Everyone is allowed to be friends. You understand?”
Ellie pouts, her bottom lip jutting out. “Yeah, but if Lijah has a girl for a flatmate, why can’t we be his flatmates?”
“Because you’re too far away for now,” I explain, saving Mum some of the headache of explaining it herself for what’s likely the hundredth time. “You can visit and be my little roomies for a weekend whenever Mum is free from work. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” both Ellie and Lyla say, deflating.
We talk until it’s their bedtime. Most of the conversation is about the girls’ week at school. Apparently, someone picked on Ellie, and Lyla punched the kid in the throat for it. I can’t say I’m mad at her, but the conversation about keeping her hands to herself isn’t one I’d anticipated having with an eleven-year-old—not that she’s ever had any other father figure she can count on to explain that sort of thing—and with Mum being sick for as long as she was, she hasn’t fully acclimated to her role as their full-time mother now that I’m gone. It’s strange, missing the chaos of caring for them. Someday, I just hope I can resume my role as their brother and not their fill-in parent.
When we get off the phone, I order a tea set to the flat. Who’d have thought the first package I’d receive at my new flat would be a children's tea set?
IamBritish, so I suppose I should’ve known.
I get up and head for the door, but my fingers linger on the doorknob, a beat of apprehension passing through me as I hear the telltale sign of the TV playing in the living room.
Sucking in a deep breath, I twist the handle and pad down the hall towards the sound, rather than following my instincts to placate her and stay out of her space.
I find Adhira nestled in the corner of the sofa with a fluffy green robe pulled around her shoulders, eyes half closed as she stares at the telly with string and rocks in her lap. She fiddles with the items, her gaze not on them but on the screen ahead.
The lights are off, her face lit only by the massive telly, but it’s more than enough to take in her smooth complexion and the slight curve of her nose, full lips, and long lashes. She's painfully alluring, and my breath catches in my throat as I finally tear my gaze from her to see what she’s been watching.
I stumble into the room, making my presence known, and her wide eyes greet me before she turns back around, grappling for the remote and flicking the telly off.
“I thought you’d gone to bed,” she murmurs, never meeting my gaze, and I can’t help but allow the smile to take over my face.
“I just got done on the phone with my family. Thought I’d grab some water before I head to bed,” I tell her, making my way around the counter to grab a glass. My cheeks are burning from smiling so hard, and I just know I’m doing a wank job at concealing my enthusiasm over her entertainment of choice.
“Right.” She moves her pile of blankets off her lap and stands. “I should probably head off to bed too.”
I take a long swig of my water as she approaches her door, her hand lingering on the knob, her gaze catching mine as she peers over her shoulder.
“Goodnight, Elijah.”
“Goodnight, Adhira,” I whisper, the words swallowed by silence as she slips into her room, leaving me alone with the knowledge that she was watchingmygame tape to keep me warm tonight.And damn if it doesn’t do the job.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
I tugon a pair of black leggings and a light-blue jumper, slip my feet into my trainers, and put on a surgical mask, the elastic scraping against my cheek as I tug it into place.
I know this is out of an abundance of caution, but I’m not going to be the victim of a common cold while immunosuppressed.
Outside, the morning air hums faintly with traffic and distant chatter, the city already alive while I feel half dead.
The walk to the shops is short. Luckily, it’s located right across the street because I don’t think I’d be able to carry much of anything back to my flat if it were any further. I browse the aisles, my eyes catching on the “international” section, which boasts a tiny shelf of Scottish goods. Not that I think you can call tinned haggis and neeps a “good,” but I’m sure they’re a staple for Archie, the old geezer I met at my first infusion. I’ll neveradmit it to him, but I don’t think I’d have gotten through it if it weren’t for his incessant chatter and obvious effort to distract me from the discomfort of the whole situation.
I hope he’s well and not six feet under somewhere.
