Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
SOL
I don’t knock.
I do plan to – but the sound of her coughing on the other side of the door stops me cold.
It’s wet. Deep. Wrong. The kind that comes from the chest, not the throat. The kind that rattles.
I open the door.
She’s on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket like it’s the only thing holding her together, knees drawn up tight, shoulders hitching as she tries to swallow another cough into the sleeve of her hoodie.
Her hair hangs lank around her face, damp with sweat, clinging to her temples.
Her skin looks dull. Too pale. Her eyes are glassy when they flick up to me, startled.
“Oh. Sol.” Her voice is wrecked. Sandpaper-soft. Strained.
Something ugly twists in my chest. “You should be in bed,” I say, harsher than I intended.
She frowns like I’ve just insulted her, dragging the blanket tighter around herself. “I was. I just…needed water.”
The room tells a different story. Half-empty mugs are scattered on every surface.
There’s a bowl of grapes shrivelling at the edges.
Toast gone cold, barely touched, is balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa.
The air is stale with old air and sweat – and underneath it, something sharp and off that makes my instincts itch even though I can’t place why.
“How long?” I ask.
She shrugs too fast, eyes skittering away. “Couple of days. It’s nothing.”
Bullshit.
I step closer. She tracks me with her eyes, tense, like she’s bracing for an argument she’s already exhausted by. I crouch in front of her and take her wrist before she can pull away.
Her pulse stutters under my fingers. Her skin is hot. Way too fucking hot.
I drop her hand immediately, jaw tightening.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
Her breath catches. Just a hitch but it’s enough.
“I don’t need to,” she says quickly.
“That wasn’t the question.”
She looks away. Her hair slips forward with the movement, curtain-thick and damp, hiding the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder. My eyes snag there anyway, instinctively scanning. There’s nothing I can clearly see. Just flushed skin. Heat. The bulk of her hoodie swallowing her frame.
I thought I would feel relief, but I don’t.
My patience snaps into something colder, sharper.
“Why not?”
Her fingers curl into the blanket. Knuckles white. “I’m not registered here yet.”
“So go to A&E.”
Her head jerks up. “No.” The word comes out too fast. Too loud. Too stubborn.
“Lani—”
“I can’t,” she says, panic edging her voice now. “I don’t—please don’t make this into a thing.”
That’s when I really look at her.
Not the fever. Not the shaking.
The fear.
It flashes across her face before she can hide it – old, ingrained, defensive. Like hospitals aren’t neutral places to her. Like they come with consequences.
Finn used to be like that too. When he was younger and couldn’t stand up for himself against his father, he would come to us each summer sporting fresh injuries and a tangible fear of the authorities being notified.
I straighten slowly.
“Right,” I say.
She blinks. “Right?”
“I’m taking you to see someone.”
Her eyes widen. “Sol, no—”
“We’ll go to the minor injuries unit,” I continue, already moving, already planning. “Or the GP in town. Or the local hospital if I don’t like what I see. It doesn’t have to be A&E.”
Her breath starts coming faster. She shakes her head, curls tighter into herself. “I’m fine. I just need rest. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve been ‘fine’ for days,” I snap. “You can barely stand.”
She tries to get up on her own. Makes it halfway. Then her knees give out.
I catch her without thinking.
Her body is too light in my arms. Too fucking wrong and yet somehow so fucking right.
She gasps, fingers fisting in my shirt like she’s drowning and I’m the only solid thing left.
For a second she freezes – then slumps against me, all fight draining out of her like she’s been holding herself upright on stubbornness alone.
“I don’t want to go,” she whispers, voice thick. “Please.”
The word lands harder than anything else she’s said.
I don’t soften but something inside of me does despite myself.
I shift my grip instead, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders, anchoring her against my chest. Keeping her steady when she can’t do it herself.
“Then you’re coming with me,” I say. “And we’ll figure it out from there.”
She shakes her head weakly. “You can’t just decide things for me.”
“I can when you won’t be reasonable.”
Her eyes flick up to mine – anger cutting through the fear, sharp and defiant even now. “You don’t even know me.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But I know this.” I nod toward her – feverish, shaking, barely holding herself upright. “You’re not staying here alone.”
Silence stretches between us.
Her breath evens out in shallow pulls. Then she exhales, long and defeated, and her forehead drops against my shoulder like she’s finally run out of ways to argue.
“…okay.”
It’s barely audible.
I move before she can change her mind.
“Keys,” I say.
“In my bag.”
I grab them, sling the bag over my shoulder, and head for the door with her still held close.
Outside, the air is cool. She shivers violently. I tuck her in tighter without thinking, instinctively adjusting the blanket like my body’s decided this is its responsibility now.
She makes it three steps toward the door before she stumbles again, breath hitching, knees buckling.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, scooping her up.
She yelps softly, startled, instinctively grabbing my shoulder as I lift her fully into my arms. She’s warm and limp and far too easy to carry.
“Sol—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “You’re not walking. I don’t care if you hate me for this,” I add.
A weak huff of breath brushes my collarbone. “Already halfway there.”
That’s…something.
I don’t hop the fence.
I walk around it.
Slow. Careful. Deliberate. Like if I rush this, something worse might happen. Her head lolls briefly before she tucks it into my shoulder, breath hot against my neck.
By the time we reach my front door, she’s shivering hard enough to rattle.
“You need a bath,” I say, already unlocking it. “Or a shower.”
Her head lifts weakly.
“That’s rude.”
“Didn’t mean it to be,” I reply, striding inside. “But it’s still true, princess.”
I don’t ask where she wants to go.
I don’t hesitate.
I carry her straight through the house, up the stairs, and into my bedroom, nudging the en suite door open with my foot. Steam will help. Warmth will help. Being clean will help.
Something in her relaxes the second we cross the threshold, like her body recognises safety even if her head doesn’t.
I set her down gently on the edge of the bath, hands still braced at her sides until I’m sure she won’t tip.
I turn the water on to warm up and grab a towel, movements clipped, controlled.
I don’t let myself think past the next practical step.
I don’t know what’s wrong with her.
But I know one thing with brutal clarity: whatever this is, she shouldn’t be facing it alone. And if Finn can’t be here, then I will be.