Chapter 51
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
It’s been an entire week, and my resolve has snapped. I’ve only caught fleeting glimpses of Adhira over the last seven days, and it’s never enough.
No matter how beaten down and exhausted she looks, she’s still the most ethereal woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I’d do anything to dull her pain. Even if it meant making it my own.
I’ve sent her friends updates all week, and they still have no answers or suggestions, telling me to wait it out and that she’ll find her way back to the land of the living. But I’m not so sure. The guys have offered their suggestions, too, but none of them makes sense.
And more than that, I’ve grown impatient.
Which is what has driven me to stand here, in the middle of our tiny living room, pushing furniture around, creating all sorts of noise that I’m sure Adhira wants to throttle me for. Frankly, I’d love nothing more than for her to stomp out here and bite my damn head off about it.
She doesn’t.
Not even when I slide the coffee table off the carpet, creating a shrill scraping sound that resounds through the room. She makes no noise. No effort to live.
It angers me that if our roles were reversed, she wouldn’t put up with this from me. She’d force me to confront my emotions—and probably distract me from them when she thought I’d had enough. But she doesn’t do that for herself.
Does she not think she’s worth the same effort?
Today, that ends.
I pull the cushions from the sofa, grabbing blankets and pillows from my room, constructing the most perfect, sturdy, and comfortable pillow fort, skills honed by years of big-brothering.
I crawl inside, double-checking that it’s got enough room for both of us, and once I’m satisfied, I waste no time hauling myself up and swinging her door open.
I don’t bother with the pretence of a knock.
She hasn’t moved, let alone decided to strip naked and sprawl across her bed for me to find.
My chest aches when I see her, lying on her side, clutching a pillow to her chest. The glow from the moonlight tangles in her messy strands, her expression glazed as she ignores me, staring blankly at the wall.
I cross the room, the mattress dipping under my weight as I sit beside her and place a tentative hand over her much smaller one. Only then do those burnt-caramel eyes glance up at me, my heart stuttering for a beat.
“I know that you needed time to process your grief, but it’s been a week, and I’m done allowing you to rot away in your own misery while everyone around you worries about your wellbeing.”
“Then quit caring,” she mutters, flicking her gaze away, and I immediately miss her eyes.
“Even if that were within the realm of possibility, I simply don’t want to. So get up.”
“No,” she growls, and my lips twitch. An angry Adhira is something I can work with. I’d rather be on the receiving end of her ire than in the claws of her indifference.
“Get. Up,” I repeat, punctuating each word.
She rolls her eyes, and my grin widens. There she is.
“If you don’t get up on your own, I’ll pick you up and carry you out of here,” I tell her, and she doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she makes a show of rolling over, dragging her duvet with her.
“Really? You’re going to act like a child who doesn’t want to get up for school?”
I tug the duvet back and am met with a glare and a throaty scoff. Her reaction is so much more familiar than the week of silence I’ve endured, and I’m spurred on by it, welcoming her annoyance.
“Go away,” she grumbles, but she makes no effort to create distance between us.
“You know, I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me, Adhira,” I say, letting out a deep, humourless chuckle, catching her side-eyed glance.
“Then you must be dense.”
I’ve missed her so goddamn much that hearing anything from her lips is enough for me. But since we’re here, and I have an apparent death wish, I lean closer, trying not to make it obvious as I breathe in the warm scent of her shampoo.
I hover my mouth just above her ear and whisper, “You must want me to pick you up.”
I don’t miss the way she shivers. A thrill of excitement leaps through my chest as I wrap my arms around her, cradling her against me while she yelps, smacking a palm against my breastbone. I carry her into the living room, sinking to my knees at the entrance of our little cave.
“Just let me go,” she whines, a mixture of anger and sadness breaking her words—and my heart along with it.
“You see, sweetheart, I can’t do that,” I tell her, nuzzling into her hair.
“Because you’re breaking my goddamn heart, and I can’t stand by and watch you become a shell of yourself anymore.
I’ve given you your space, but now? Now you face this.
And I’m not letting you go until you actually want me to. ”
I manoeuvre us inside, depositing her onto her side of the cushions.
My tightly wound muscles relax as the fight continues to burn in her eyes, but her desire to leave me is extinguished.
She relaxes against the stack of cushions, and I crawl in after her, pausing to adjust the ones above us so they don’t collapse.
The space is tight, and I use it as an excuse to invade her space even more, squishing myself to her side.
When I’m convinced she’s not going to flee, I allow my eyes to roam over her, noting all the changes I see.
Her hair is even thinner than before, still glossy and long, but a crown of broken strands sits atop her head.
Dark circles are smudged beneath her eyes, and her cheeks are a little hollow, but it’s nothing a couple of weeks of adequate nutrition and sleep shouldn’t fix, and for that, I’m grateful.
My gaze catches on the collar of her shirt peeking out from beneath the fluffy blankets resting over her chest. Warmth flows through my belly at seeing her in my shirt; even after the week she’s had, she’s still kept me close.
Maybe she’s needed me as badly as I’ve needed her.
I wrap my arms around her, bury my face in her neck, and sag in relief as she exhales a long, steady breath, winding her arms around my waist and giving in to everything I think we’ve both needed.