4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

A s the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the final rays of light cast a warm glow over the street, I finish locking up the shop and carefully lower the metal shutters with a soft clank. The day has been long and full, but there’s a small, unexpected pleasure in knowing that Oscar sat through the entire session today. It’s easy to make assumptions based on appearances, but today proved that there’s often more beneath the surface. Perhaps it was the way I spoke about Laelia that caught his attention—her passion and stories have a way of captivating those who take the time to listen.

Understanding how taxing today has likely been for Laelia, given that she’s probably been working tirelessly at her desk at home, I decide to make a small but meaningful gesture. I head over to Blooms, our favourite flower shop, to pick out a bouquet for her. Laelia has always had a deep affection for flowers. Every spring, without fail, she dedicates hours to our garden, meticulously planting and tending to an array of colourful blooms. She believes that by cultivating these flowers, she’s contributing to a more beautiful world. Her enthusiasm is so genuine that it often inspires me as well.

Lately, however, I’ve noticed a change. Despite her usual enthusiasm for flowers, she hasn’t been adding any new ones to our home or garden. The vases that once filled every corner of our house with their vibrant colours and sweet scents have become noticeably scarce. It’s unusual, given how much joy she derives from them. Perhaps it’s a sign that she’s been overwhelmed, which is all the more reason for me to bring a bit of cheer into her day.

Blooms has always been special to us. Every August, we visit the shop to celebrate our anniversary. It’s a tradition that started on our first date six years ago, when I took her to the butterfly house out back—a serene escape filled with fluttering wings and colourful blooms.

10th August 2017

Hello Beautiful, I’m wondering if you’re free this afternoon.

If so, would you fancy going on a date?

I watch as the bubbles pop up on the screen while she types away, eagerly awaiting a response.

Laelia 3: Hello trouble! I’m free! What do you have in mind? Xx

She sent kisses—does that mean I should send some back? If I do, is it too much? Should I match her two kisses or just send one? And how do you flirt with someone you feel you’ve already missed out on?

That's a surprise! But I do know you will love it x

I sent a kiss! I sent a kiss!

Oh, really? What time should I be expecting you? Xx

I’ll be there to pick you up at 1. Just text me your address so I can find you easily. X

With only a couple of hours before I need to be there, I quickly jump into action. After a refreshing shower, I pull on my favourite black ripped jeans, a band tee, my trusty leather jacket, and my classic Dr. Martens. I’ve always embraced an alternative style—it’s not just a look, it’s who I am. Rock music pulses through my veins, and I’m often found in the midst of a crowd, lost in the energy of live performances. My tattoos are a testament to this lifestyle; all in black and grey, with only a small one under my right eye. I’ve filled up most of the space on my body, and though I love ink, I’ve decided against tattooing my face any further.

My long hair, once a source of pride for my mum, who always said it was the envy of many—a cascade of dirty blonde waves with no split ends—gets swept up into a neat bun. My mum, a talented hairdresser, also taught me how to maintain my beard and moustache. Every detail counts today because I want to look and feel my best, especially since I’m spending the entire day with Laelia.

I slide on a few rings, make sure my look is on point, and then I reach for my aftershave. I want to make sure I smell as good as she will, knowing she’ll undoubtedly bring a touch of heavenly fragrance with her.

Once I’m ready, I grab my helmet and the spare, lock up my little apartment, and head downstairs to my motorbike parked just outside. Glancing at my phone before I put on my helmet, I see her address. I should have remembered it, considering it’s the place she lived in before moving to London with her mum. It’s not too far—just a fifteen-minute ride on a good traffic day. If luck isn’t on my side, it might take up to forty minutes to an hour.

From what I remember, her relationship with her dad isn’t the best. She’s probably eager to leave that place behind sooner rather than later. I want to make sure that today, I give her a reason to stay and enjoy every moment of her time here with me.

Strapping the second helmet onto the back of my motorbike, I swing my leg over the seat and settle in with a sense of anticipation. Before I start the engine, I carefully put on my helmet and gloves, the familiar snugness a reassuring presence. With a decisive kick, I retract the stand, and as I twist the throttle, the engine roars to life. The deep, throaty growl beneath me always puts a grin on my face—it's a sound I can’t get enough of.

When I turned seventeen, I eagerly got my first motorbike. It wasn't much—limited by the rules and regulations governing what I could ride at that age—but it was mine. That small, modest bike was my first taste of freedom. After passing my test, I began the gradual process of upgrading, each new model bringing me closer to my dream machine. Finally, I ended up with my black Triumph Tiger 1200 GT. And let me tell you, she’s not just a bike; she’s a work of art. Every time I ride her, I feel like I'm on top of the world.

Navigating through town on my motorbike is a breeze. In contrast, if I were driving a car, the same trip that takes me fifteen minutes on my bike would stretch to at least half an hour. The town centre is perpetually gridlocked, plagued by an endless cycle of roadworks that seem to spring up with no warning. But on my bike, I can effortlessly weave through the congestion, slipping between stalled cars and avoiding the chaos that traps drivers in their vehicles.

As I pull up outside her house, I give the stand a firm kick and dismount. Removing my helmet, I take a moment to glance around. This is a place brimming with memories from our high school days. Her little purple room, where we spent so many hours together, holds a special place in my heart.

We spent countless hours in that little purple room, wrapped up in our own world. Our time together was a blend of passionate moments—making out, having sex, and smoking weed—while the walls reverberated with a never-ending soundtrack of rock music. Those were carefree days before her parents’ divorce and her mother’s departure cast a shadow over our lives.

One of the last times I was here, her mother walked in on us mid-session. To my surprise, she didn’t lay the blame on me. Instead, she acknowledged the undeniable influence Laelia had on me and revealed that she was already aware of Laelia’s smoking habits. Despite Laelia’s attempts to cover up the smell with cheap perfume—a futile effort that never quite succeeded—her mother had seen through the charade. Her nonchalant response, a mix of resignation and acceptance, seemed to capture the complexity of those turbulent times.

29th August 2010

I feel like I'm floating on cloud nine as everything around me starts to blend into a hazy, blissful blur. The high from the weed we’ve just inhaled is beginning to take hold, wrapping me in its warm embrace. Laelia and I have spent the past hour in her bedroom, the air thick with the dense clouds of smoke we’ve created. We’ve taken every precaution to keep the smoke contained—windows and doors tightly shut, with a blanket stuffed at the bottom of the door to keep any hint of our indulgence from escaping. It's our own little sanctuary, a makeshift hotbox.

Nestled beneath a thin blanket on her bed, we lie naked, savouring the euphoric afterglow. Laelia rests her head comfortably on my chest, her breathing even and relaxed. We should really be making an effort to clear the room—opening all the windows and doors to dissipate the smoke and banish the smell before her mum comes home. But at this moment, the idea of moving seems almost hopeless. The high has us ensnared in a state of blissful immobility, and the thought of doing anything more than lying here seems like too much effort.

Even if we made a concerted effort to air out the room, it’s unlikely we’d rid it of the smell and smoke before her mum arrives. The scent lingers stubbornly, taking hours to fully dissipate, and we’re running out of time.

Throughout the summer holidays, we’ve managed to squeeze in a lot of fun. We’ve explored the zoo, thrilled ourselves at a theme park, relaxed at the beach, and marvelled at the aquarium. Our social calendar hasn’t been empty either; we’ve hit up a few house parties, including a wild one at Ethan’s place. His parents were supposed to be away for the weekend, but their event got cancelled last minute, so they came home early. When they walked into a house that was, quite frankly, a disaster zone, Ethan got an earful and was grounded. Honestly, I’m not surprised—the place looked like a tornado had hit it.

When we’ve been at Laelia’s place, it’s been just the two of us. Her mum has been working long hours, from early morning until late at night, trying to juggle two jobs since her dad has been absent for weeks, supposedly on a business trip. Laelia isn’t convinced. She’s told me that her parents’ arguments have become more frequent and intense. She’s overheard them talking about drugs, gambling, alcohol, theft, and infidelity. According to her, her dad’s “business trip” is just a cover for some shady dealings, and he’s been losing money rather than making any.

Laelia suspects that their marriage is unravelling and that a divorce might be on the horizon. She hopes that, if it happens, her mum will take her with her. Laelia’s father has drunkenly called her an “accident” more times than she can count, and her mum, instead of correcting him, simply ignores it. The lack of intervention from her mother only adds to Laelia’s sense of disillusionment and sadness.

My heart aches for Laelia as I consider the strained relationship she has with her parents. Despite my own complicated relationship with my dad, I’m fortunate to have a strong bond with my mum, and I can’t help but wonder how Laelia copes being an only child with such a tenuous connection to her parents. It’s painful to think of her feeling so isolated and unsupported.

Every time I ask Laelia how she’s doing, she insists she’s fine. Yet, her eyes betray her—the way they drop slightly, the subtle parting of her lips, the way she absently plays with her hair—all reveal a sadness she’s not ready to talk about. I don’t want to push her into a conversation she isn’t prepared for, so I simply pull her close, holding her tightly. I shower her with kisses, hoping to convey how much she means to me. I want her to know that I’m here for her, that I love her with everything I have. She’s my everything, and I’m determined to be the steadfast presence in her life that she so desperately needs. No one will ever replace her in my heart.

As I hand her the spliff, she takes it from me with a gentle grace, placing it between her lips. She inhales deeply, letting the smoke curl through her, and then exhales slowly through her nose, a satisfied hum escaping her. In these quiet moments, amidst the haze of smoke and the tender connection we share, I hope she finds some solace and peace, even if just for a little while.

Turning my attention to the glittery purple walls adorned with band posters, I can’t help but chuckle. “I still can’t get over the fact that you listen to One Direction,” I say, my gaze lingering on the half-naked Harry Styles poster plastered on her wardrobe.

Laelia props herself up on one elbow, a playful glint in her eyes as she takes another drag from the spliff before handing it to me. I can’t help but let my eyes wander as the thin blanket slips down her naked form, revealing one of her firm breasts and a perfectly stiff nipple that looks almost too tempting to resist.

“Sometimes a girl needs something good to look at to get off too,” she says with a smirk, making me quickly shift my gaze from her exposed breast to her face.

I chuckle, “I think I give you plenty to look at.”

Her smirk deepens. “Maybe not enough.”

Challenge fucking accepted.

“That can definitely change. Just say the word, and I’m all in,” I say, sitting up and gently cupping her face with my hands. “I’ll give you as much as you want—you don’t have to ask me twice.”

In that moment, our playful banter blends seamlessly with the intimacy we share. I’m completely invested in making her feel cherished and adored, and I’m ready to prove it in every way I can.

I crash my lips against hers before she has a chance to utter another word. Her lips mould to mine with a delicious urgency, parting just enough for me to slip my tongue into the warm, intoxicating space. The kiss deepens, our breaths mingling, but before things can escalate further, I feel her hand gently push against my chest, creating a slight separation between us.

I pull back slightly, looking into her eyes, which are now alight with a burning hunger and lust. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily to regain her composure before opening them again, now more controlled but still smouldering.

The thought of breaking that control with just two words makes me wickedly smirk.

It’s as if she can read my mind. Her eyes widen with a mixture of surprise and mock irritation, and she playfully swats my arm. “Don’t you fucking dare, Killian Tate,” she warns, her finger jabbing into my chest. “You know I have zero control when you say those words, and you fucking know it.”

Her challenge only fuels the mischievous glint in my eyes. It’s a game between us, one where I revel in the playful tension and the thrilling anticipation of pushing boundaries. And as much as I enjoy this back-and-forth, I’m more than willing to play along, knowing that the boundaries we test only bring us closer.

I chuckle, savouring the way her expression reveals just how close she is to losing her composure from the mere thought of me uttering those words. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I tease, knowing full well that I would if given the chance.

“You so fucking would, and we both know it,” she replies, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.

She’s absolutely right. I thrive on teasing her, on making her beg for more. The moans she makes while we’re entwined are like music to me, a symphony I never tire of. The mere thought of it makes my body respond eagerly. God, I want her so badly.

Before I can say anything else, we both hear the unmistakable sound of the front door slamming shut. Laelia’s eyes widen in panic, immediately recognising that her mum is home.

In a flurry of activity, we scramble out of bed, grabbing our clothes off the floor in a hasty attempt to dress. Laelia quickly dons the last piece of clothing and dashes to her television, turning it on to create a distraction. Meanwhile, I grab the blanket we had used to block the door and toss it back onto the bed, then rush to open the window, hoping to clear out some of the lingering smoke.

Laelia snuffs out the joint and stuffs it into her bag, discarding any evidence of our earlier activities. We barely manage to get everything sorted before we both dive back onto the bed. Laelia snuggles up to me, and we assume a casual position as if we’ve been relaxing together all day, rather than engaging in a whirlwind of intimacy and smoke.

As we settle into this carefully constructed facade, our hearts are racing but our faces are calm. We exchange a knowing glance, sharing a silent agreement that we’ve successfully averted a potential disaster. For now, we just have to hope that the pretence will hold up long enough for her mum to settle in and for us to catch our breath.

Right on cue, her bedroom door swings open, revealing her mum. It’s striking how much Laelia resembles her—both with their long, lush brown hair, dark brown eyes, and peachy skin speckled with freckles. Yet, the stark contrast between them is evident. Her mum’s face is marked by heavy bags under her eyes, her complexion has taken on a sallow hue, and her posture is noticeably slumped. The frown etched deep into her features speaks volumes about the exhaustion she endures from working eighty to ninety-hour weeks with no days off. It’s a wonder she hasn’t collapsed from sheer fatigue.

As she steps into the room, her nostrils flare as she’s hit by the unmistakable scent of weed lingering in the air. She sighs heavily and closes her eyes for a moment, running a weary hand over her face. “What have I told you about smoking weed in your room?” she asks with a tone of frustration.

Laelia sits up, the light in her eyes fading along with her earlier smile. “Sorry, mum,” she mumbles, her voice barely audible.

Her mum’s exasperation deepens as she sighs again. “You’re turning out more like your dad. I wish you’d listen.”

The impact of her words is palpable, and I see Laelia’s breath catch. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, threatening to spill over. The weight of her mum’s disappointment and the comparison to her father cut deep. It’s a moment heavy with unspoken pain, a stark reminder of the strained relationship and the burden Laelia carries.

In the fragile silence that follows, I can only watch, feeling the emotional toll of the scene. Laelia’s vulnerability is starkly illuminated, and I wish there was something more I could do to ease her heartache and support her through this difficult moment.

Without hesitation, I sit up, my expression a mix of anger and disbelief. “Mrs. Thorn, Laelia is nothing like her dad, and for you, her mother, to say anything of the sort is absolutely appalling. I know I’m supposed to be polite and grateful for staying here during the summer, but don’t talk to her like that. She does everything she can to make you happy and to have a good relationship with you, and all you do is make digs and throw harsh comments. Laelia didn’t ask for the mess her dad has created, but she’s trying her best to navigate it. You’re supposed to work with her, not against her. I might only be nineteen, but she’s your daughter. Don’t take your frustration and exhaustion out on her just because you’re tired from working so many hours,” I shout, my voice echoing with the force of my words before I realise the gravity of what I’ve just said.

Both her mum's and Laelia’s mouths drop open in shock. I feel a surge of fear as I wait for the fallout. Her mum’s eyes dart between me and Laelia, and I swear I see her face flush red with anger.

She clears her throat and coughs, trying to regain her composure. “Get rid of the smell by opening the window further and the ones in the hallway,” she instructs, her gaze sweeping over Laelia’s room. “And tidy up.”

Without another word, she turns and slams the door behind her, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she heads down the stairs.

I turn to Laelia, who’s staring at me with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. “You didn’t have to say any of that, but thank you,” she says softly, her voice trembling.

She wraps her arms around me, melting into my embrace. I hold her tightly, my hands rubbing her back in an attempt to offer comfort and support in the wake of her mother’s harsh words. What kind of mother speaks to her child like that?

Laelia pulls away slightly, her eyes shining with affection. “I love you,” she says, leaning in to kiss me.

I pull back and smile at her, my heart swelling with emotion. “And I love you. Always.”