Chapter 58
CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
“All that’s left is the air mattress,” I say, flicking off the bedroom light and strolling out of my room.
“Let’s get it set up then. Are you staying with me tonight or throwing a blanket over the clean linens in your room?” he asks.
“Probably the latter,” I say, not missing the way his shoulders deflate, growing more and more used to reading his body language, a task I’ve never bothered to do with anyone else without the intention of mirroring.
He stops in his doorway, throwing the door wide with the hand not clutching the crumpled piece of deflated plastic. I stride in after him, nerves crawling up my spine. I’ve never been in here before.
He flicks his gaze over his shoulder at me as he turns his lamp on, passing through the threshold, and I’m hit with the intoxicating, warm cinnamon and bergamot fragrance that always follows him.
In here, it’s overwhelming in the best way, and I’m thankful the nausea hasn’t been an issue in several days, allowing me to appreciate the delicious, comforting aroma.
His room is painted the same light blue as mine, but our styles couldn’t be more different, and I sort of love that paradox.
His mattress sits in the centre of the room on a dark wooden platform base, covered with a navy-blue comforter and matching pillowcases.
A small, ancient-looking green dinosaur with a purple glittery horn in the middle of its forehead is nestled between his pillows.
The walls on either side of his bed are lined with overflowing bookshelves, save for a single shelf in the middle that displays the book I’d gotten him months ago.
Along the shelf’s edge are the dozens of folded Post-its I’ve been leaving him.
Elijah is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. He's patient and caring beyond measure, and his presence alone is enough to make me feel like I can handle just about anything life throws at me.
I hadn't realised it all those months ago, but while I was giving him everything I could manage in those small notes, he was meeting me where I was, never pushing for more, despite how much he may have wanted to. He started out as my flatmate, became my friend, and by just being himself, he became so much more. I’m not sure I have the right words to describe it yet because “love” doesn’t feel strong enough to describe what’s grown between us.
The folded notes on his shelf are small tokens of our relationship, and seeing how close he keeps them—that he keeps them at all—has butterflies erupting in my belly.
I run my fingers along the edge of his dresser, knowing I won’t find even a speck of dust. Images of his sisters, his mum, and who I can only assume is his nan litter the surface, their love and adoration shining through the lens.
If he’s uncomfortable with me scrutinising his things like this, he doesn’t say, allowing me to soak it all in.
I find my way to the smaller bookshelf tucked into the corner by the window.
My eyes light up with recognition as they land on the fifty or so colourful pottery pieces glittering on the shelves.
“You made all of these yourself?”
“I did,” he says. “I’ve made what feels like a million more, but these are the ones that hold special meanings or remind me of a time I needed pottery as an escape.”
A gorgeous emerald-green vase adorned with pink and teal butterflies catches my eye. “What about this one?” I ask, my hands shaking as I pick it up.
“I made it the night Mum found out she was in remission. That day had been so exhausting in ways I wasn’t prepared for, even after receiving the good news. I just needed to work on something as delicate as the second chance we’d been given, and to release some of that pent-up emotion.”
My chest warms, and I glance up to tell him how beautiful the sentiment is, but the words die on my tongue as the vase slips from my fingers.
It crashes to the ground, and I lunge after it, guilt blooming beneath my ribs like a bruise. The jagged edges lie motionless on the floor beneath me, but it feels like they’re slicing me open all the same.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” I murmur, my hands trembling as I try to pick up the pieces. My numb fingertips make it difficult, and hot tears burn at the back of my throat.
I feel his warmth radiate beside me as he crouches down, his hands covering mine. “Adhira, look at me,” he says, his tone firm and commanding in a way I’ve never heard it before. My heart all but stops.
I meet his gaze through a curtain of tears, my lip quivering. He reaches out, cupping my cheeks in his massive palms, brushing his thumbs beneath my eyes to wipe away the tears I hadn’t realised I let fall. “You’ve done nothing wrong, okay?”
I shake my head. “I should’ve been more careful. The neuropathy hasn’t fully resolved since the last round of chemo, and I should—”
“Stop.” He presses his forehead to mine, my cheeks still cradled by warm palms. “It served its purpose already, Adhira. Creating that piece gave me the outlet I needed at the time, but my mum is still in remission. So, stop worrying and let me clean this up.”
He shifts away, collecting the broken pieces and depositing them inside a larger vase before setting it back on the shelf. I stand on wobbly limbs, confounded by his ability to always set my mind and heart at ease.
“You know, I’d like to show you something,” he says. Goose bumps erupt at the sensation of his arm against mine as he passes me, as though he hadn’t just had his hands all over me.
“We have to finish setting up the matt—” The words get caught in my throat as I take him in, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest as he gives me a cocky smirk, flicking his gaze down to the freshly made bed at his feet. “Oh.”
“Mm-hm. I got a lot done while you were snooping,” he teases, offering me his hand. “Come on, follow me. I think we could both use a distraction.”
I do as he says, slipping my trainers on as he does the same, holding the door open for me.
“Is what I’m wearing okay for what you have planned?”
He fixes me with an assessing gaze as his eyes roam over my outfit, and I fight the urge to bristle. “That’ll do,” he murmurs, turning and walking off for me to follow.
We make our way downstairs, through the lobby and into the chilly, humid weather. I wrap my arms around my torso, scowling at Elijah as he chuckles at my expense.
“Come on, sweetheart. We’re almost there.”
A few doors down, he opens a glass door, and a chime overhead announces our arrival. I step inside the quiet studio—walls covered in art, shelves of pre-made ceramics ready to be painted, and private rooms for classes surround me.
A short woman with frizzy blonde hair and thick-framed glasses emerges from the back room, her smile growing wide with recognition as her bright eyes land on Elijah. “Visitin’ so late!” she exclaims, unbothered as she throws her arms wide, wrapping him in a hug that he melts into.
If I needed the confirmation that this man is starved for affection and thrives on physical touch, this would be it.
“Sorry, Tina. I wanted to show my friend how to throw a pot, if you’re okay with that,” he explains, pulling back just enough to see her face.
She squeezes his forearms, turning her attention to me. Her smile grows wider as she assesses me. “Yer friend, you say?” she asks, waggling her brows.
He clears his throat, his cheeks flaming red, and my lips twitch. “Mm-hm,” he hums.
“And does yer friend have a name?” she asks, just as a man the size of a Viking, with a thick black beard and bald head, exits the same room she came from.
“Tina, ye’ out here causin’ trouble?” he asks with a deep-bellied chuckle.
“Rodney,” Elijah says, dipping his chin. “Adhira, this is Rodney and Tina, the owners of the Broken Teapot. Any chance we could use one of your classrooms?”
Rodney tosses a set of keys through the air, grinning as Elijah lurches forward, catching them with the speed and agility rugby has taught him.
“We’re settin’ out fer dinner with the kids.
Lock up and drop the keys off in the mornin’,” he says, leading his wife out the back as Elijah thanks them profusely.
“I didn’t realise you were so close with the owners,” I say.
“Tina and Rodney are big Wyvern Warriors fans, so we chat a lot about my matches.”
He locks the front door, and I quirk a brow at him. “You planning to lock me in here and have your way with me, Elijah?” I tease, hoping to break through some of the tension thickening the air, but my words have the complete opposite effect on me. I’m surprised by how much I might enjoy that.
“If I thought for even a second you’d allow that, I’d give it a shot,” he says with a cheeky grin that lights my blood on fire. “Come on.”
He waves me over, and I follow on unsteady legs as he leads me to a room in the back. He flicks on the first of the light switches, bathing the room in a soft glow. Six tiny, backless stools are set up behind pottery wheels.
Elijah looks so at ease in this place, setting me up at the centre wheel while he gathers supplies and lays them out before me. He lifts the lid off a giant grey rubbish bin filled with clay.
He carries himself with a quiet confidence that boasts just how comfortable he is in this space. Once everything is ready, he takes a seat behind me.
“You’ll use this pedal to increase the speed of the wheel.
Start very slow. You don’t want it flying all over the place,” he says, pressing it a few times.
He picks up a cup of water with an orange sponge inside.
“We’ll use this to keep the clay moist so it remains pliable, and then, towards the end, we can use it to smooth the edges.
Don’t add too much water or it’ll ruin the texture, alright? ”
I nod, my nose scrunching at how easily I could mess this up.