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“I’m not a baby,” he sings.

Standing slowly, I shake my head as I move over to his head of curls.

“I know,” I reply. “I must have left it on the counter. Do you want a cookie while I’m inside?”

“Mmm. Yes, please.”

I close my eyes as the world moves, my fingers tight on the back of his chair. There are more reasons than one why we’re here coloring. I don’t feel so great today and I’m in the middle of a flare. I have an infusion tomorrow, and I let Arran know I need a little extra help today.

He told me he’s going to come over and cook for us. I’m sure he’ll jump in and help me get Zayn to bed too, which will be really nice. Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and reach out for the door, using it to hold onto as I walk into the house. My hand leans heavily on the wall as I look for the damn phone, finding it in the kitchen.

I grab a pinch of salt and drop it into my mouth, making a face as tears of frustration threaten to prick my eyes. Just because this is my life, doesn’t mean I have to allow it to suck me into a well of sadness.

I’m alive, I have an incredible son, and a great support system. That’s what I have to focus on.

My breaths come heavier as I pull out a fresh cookie from a batch that Zayn and I baked a few days earlier. Even though my meds make a world of difference, flares can tank my health. Stabbing the phone’s screen to find Arran’s contact, I pull out an electrolyte lollipop and add extra salt to it. I’m pulling out the big guns.

“I’m coming over right now,” he greets me, bringing a smile to my lips as I suck on my lollipop. I can see Zayn from the window, and know I need to be quick.

“Zayn doesn’t want to take ice skating lessons from anyone but me,” I wheeze, wincing at how bad I sound. “He’s demanding to speak to Alastair, Ciaran, or Draven to know why I can’t teach him. I’ve taught him how to draw and paint, why not ice skate?”

“I’ll send you one of their numbers, and I’m leaving work,” he says.

“Arran,” I groan.

“No, baby. I don’t want to hear it. Please sit down and raise your feet. What are you sucking on?”

“Electrolyte lolly with a side of salt.”

“Yum,” he chuckles. “It’s slow here. I would much rather be with you.”

I can vaguely hear kissing sounds and other inappropriate things, which Arran does his best to ignore.

“Where are you right now?”

“Kitchen,” I breathe. “I… Ugh. My legs feel like jello. I’m going back outside to Zayn. I’ll probably be out there when you get home.”

“And I’ll gladly carry you in,” he drawls. “I love you.”

“Love you,” I mumble, hanging up and pocketing my phone with my lolly in my mouth still. I make my way back outside with Zayn’s cookie and place it in front of him before fishing out my phone.

“Arran is coming over, and I’m calling one of the hockey players who wants to teach you how to ice skate,” I tell Zayn, too tired to mince words.

“Excuse me.”

“You’re excused,” I reply, winking at him. I’m trying hard to keep it together, despite my racing heart beat. “Arran sent me a phone number… Ciaran.”

Wonderful.

I connect the call, feeling awkward since we haven’t spoken since he crawled across the floor a month ago.

“Hello, this is Ciaran Ashford. What can I do you for?”

The words are lazy and misleading, because the boy I knew either weighed every word or bled them from his pores. Maybe this is the public facing hockey player that is forced to perform?

“This is Isla.”

“Oh. Hey. I didn’t expect to hear your voice.” The difference in tone is palpable, and I can hear the stark neediness there. Ugh. Why did Arran give me Ciaran’s number?