Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Elijah’s been different from his usual easy-going self.
He came home upset, but I didn't ask him about it, knowing that if he'd wanted to talk, there'd be little stopping him from spilling his guts to me.
After I distracted him with orca facts, he seemed to be feeling better and was more relaxed by the time we had dinner.
But ever since he spoke with his mum, his shoulders have been resting by his ears, and it’s starting to wear on me. If I can help him, I want to try.
“Elijah?” My voice startles him, and he flinches beside me, swinging his wide-eyed gaze to me.
“Sorry, what?” he asks, blinking the confusion away.
“Is everything alright?”
He drops his head into his hands briefly before straightening, running a jerky hand through his overgrown waves. “I’m not sure yet.”
I nibble on my lower lip, worried he won’t want to confide in me. Why does the idea of that hurt so much? I’m not interested in being told anything he doesn’t want to share with me, so I remain silent, giving him the space to decide.
His watery green gaze lands on my face, and something in my chest heaves, a tight sensation brewing that I don’t quite understand.
“I’ve been messing with my routine lately,” he says, averting his gaze.
That uncomfortable feeling in my chest worsens, demanding recognition.
He’s been changing his routine to meet my needs, even though he doesn’t say it. I know.
“Practice was rough, and Coach reminded me that I need to keep my eye on the prize. Then Mum called, and she said…” He looks up at the ceiling, blinking away the tears pooling in his crystalline eyes.
My jaw tightens, and I swallow thickly. Should I touch him? Does he want a hug or something? What would someone better at this do?
I clear my throat. “Is she okay?”
His voice is quiet and waterlogged. “She felt a breast lump and had it biopsied today. We don’t know the results yet, and her provider seems pretty confident it’s benign, but with her history, I can’t help but—”
“Worry,” I finish for him, and he nods. “Do you need a—” I scratch my neck, heat creeping up my chest in a mixture of embarrassment and uncertainty. “A hug?” I manage.
The question is met with a tight-lipped smile and the telltale sign of his suppressed amusement—his shoulders shaking.
“I would love a hug from you, Adhira,” he whispers, stretching his arms wide in offering.
Calm down, Adhira. It’s just a hug. Last week, you had this man thrusting on top of you. A fucking hug couldn’t be anywhere near as intimate as that, and you hadn’t died then!
I grit my teeth, scooching closer to him. I wrap my arms around his neck and release a strangled yelp when he tugs me onto his lap and buries his face in my throat.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” he whispers, breathing deeply.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, my voice coming out so small I barely hear it over the pounding pulse in my ears. I sag into his strong arms, revelling in the way he supports my frame.
I’ve never enjoyed physical touch. It doesn’t repulse me, but I would say it’s at the bottom of the list of my love languages. But with Elijah Elliott, things I’ve never enjoyed with anyone else feel rather…lovely.
He clutches me tighter, and I sink into him, allowing myself to explore both this unfamiliar feeling and the expanse of this man’s gorgeous body.
My fingers tangle in the unruly waves at the nape of his neck, the silky-smooth strands gliding through them.
I’m hit with a pang of sadness, realising that if the cold gloves don’t work, I might never get to enjoy something as simple as this again.
I think that’s what urges me to move further. I toy with the jagged edges of the gold chain draped around his neck, gliding my palms over his sinewy traps and down to the curve of his shoulders.
I slide my hands down his chest and around his back. My fingers curve over his shoulders as I press our bodies together with every ounce of strength I can muster. I don’t move, don’t unwind my arms or create any distance between us, resolving to remain in his grasp until he's had enough of me.
His warm breath tickles the thin flesh of my neck, and a warm and heavy sensation dances just beneath the surface of my skin.
“I read a theory that most humans require an average of twelve hugs a day to thrive emotionally, and four to survive,” I whisper against the taut black fabric of the V-neck stretched across his broad chest. My words are muffled, but his body shakes with soft laughter in response.
“I’m happy to provide your daily dose of hugs and snuggles, Adhira. Is that what you’d like?”
“No.” Yes. Maybe? I have no idea, but the knee-jerk response leaves my lips too quickly.
“I’m stating facts in an attempt to normalise the length of this embrace,” I quip.
If the studies are true, it’s no wonder I’ve been falling apart.
I’ve been touch-starved for so long I hadn’t even realised what I was missing.
Elijah runs a large, warm hand over the top of my head, down the length of my spine.
His palm settles at the base of my back, his thumb brushing the exposed skin where the shirt I stole from him has ridden up.
Goose bumps litter my back, trailing over my thighs as his lips graze the shell of my ear.
“I see you, Adhira,” he whispers. Fog builds in my mind, swirling as I grasp at his words.
“You may put up all these walls for everyone else because you think you’re protecting them, but you don’t have to do that with me.
You, Adhira Shah, are selfless. You’re compassionate, and you care so much more deeply than you want to admit, but I see you. ”
I don’t deny it. I don’t say anything because there isn’t anything to say. I’ve never had to mask with Elijah, and it feels freeing, like my mind and body are somehow one and entirely separate at the same time. But I don’t think that I’m selfless. That’s where he’s wrong.
I’m protecting myself from heartbreak just as much as I’m protecting the people I love.
“There’s nothing about you that needs to be changed to better suit the world around you,” he continues. “One day, you’ll see that you’re not a template. You’re the finished product.”
My spine straightens, my heart thumping unpleasantly fast. Are those heart palpitations?
I’m completely, utterly exposed to this man.
I pull away and scramble out of his lap, sucking in a desperate breath. A flicker of hurt registers on his face, and I have the urge to erase it.
Once I've settled into the thick cushions, I pat my thigh in invitation.
His brows knit as he processes the unspoken request, but he obliges, sighing contentedly as he rests his head on my lap.
We spend the next hour staring at a show neither of us is really watching.
I run my fingers through his thick blond hair so many times that, by bedtime, the usual wave is gone from the unruly strands.
And for the first time in forever, I drift off to sleep without the weight of the world—or my untimely demise—cluttering my mind.