I don’t know why that matters.
But my body does.
And it doesn’t like the absence at all.
By the next afternoon, I almost feel human.
Not good but well enough to be upright. Clear-headed enough to shower, dress, even sit at the table without feeling like gravity is personally offended by me. Finn makes toast. He slept the night on the sofa downstairs, after helping me up to bed.
I eat half of it without gagging. That alone feels like a minor miracle.
When there’s a knock at the door, I don’t tense this time.
Aisling sweeps in like a gust of summer air, rain jacket half undone, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She brings noise with her. Warmth. Movement. The kind of energy that fills a room whether you asked for it or not.
“There you are,” she says, immediately pulling me into a careful hug. “Jesus, Lani. Finn made you sound like you were on death’s door. And I don’t think he was wrong.”
“I’m fine,” I protest weakly.
She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face with narrowed eyes. “You are not fine. But you’re better than I expected. That’s something.”
“I’ll take something.”
She grins. “Good. Because I brought gossip.”
Finn snorts from the kitchen and pointedly makes himself scarce, retreating with two mugs and the kind of look that saysI’ll be nearby but not hovering. Aisling waits until he’s gone before waggling her eyebrows.
“So,” she says, dropping into the chair opposite me. “How long have you been shacked up with our tall, broody, devastatingly polite man who makes soup like it’s a love language?”
I choke on my tea.
“We’re not?—”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Because from where I’m sitting, that man is one cardigan away from being your husband.”
“He’s just helping,” I say, heat creeping up my neck while I attempt not to snigger at the thought of Finn in a cardigan. “I’ve been ill.”
“And he’s decided to personally nurse you back to health?”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“That’s worse,” she says cheerfully. “That means he volunteered…and I heard a certain Butler brother stopped by with a care package too. Care to share?”
I groan and drop my forehead to the table. “Please stop analysing my life.”
“Never,” she replies brightly. “It’s my new favourite hobby. You’ve brought so much excitement to Silver Sands. This place was getting predictable and boring. You’ve changed that!”
She launches into gossip like it’s oxygen – who’s sleeping with whom at the grill, which regular finally got banned for calling someone ‘love’ one too many times, Pete’s ongoing vendetta against the new coffee supplier. I find myself laughing. Real laughter. The kind that doesn’t hurt my ribs or make my vision swim.
Aisling watches that carefully.
“You’re lighter,” she says after a moment. “Right now. You weren’t when I saw you last week.”
“I had a good nap,” I offer.
She gives me a look. “You’re terrible at lying.”
I shrug. “I feel better today.”