Page 381 of Immune
His eyes shine. “I don’t get to.”
“No,” I whisper. “You don’t.”
He nods, but it costs him. And as much as it pains me to admit, that matters too. It matters a lot.
“I can stand outside,” he says. “For tests. If you don’t want me inside.”
My fingers tighten around my shirt that smells strongly of smoke and clove. “You’d do that?”
“I’ll do whatever you ask.”
My lips twitch. “That’s a dangerous promise to make.”
“I mean it,” he says so sternly that I have no choice but to believe him. I can hear it in every letter of his words and it’s new enough that it aches.
“I might want you there,” I relent, voice small and horrible and annoying. “Sometimes.”
His breath catches.
“And sometimes I might not.”
He nods again. Faster. “Okay. I can do sometimes, kid.”
Oh, that nickname. It sucker punches me harder than anything physical could have, punching a hole in my chest so wide that I feel a draft. It’s been six years since I heard it, and it hurts worse now than it did when I heard it last all those years ago.
“And sometimes I might be mad at you for leaving, even while I’m glad you’re here.”
His face crumples before he catches it.
“Okay,” he says again, rougher. I reach a hand out to him, and he looks at my hand like it is something sacred and terrifying before he finally takes it.
“I’m still mad,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“I still missed you, you idiot,” I tell him quietly, my voice nothing more than an emotional rasp that I have to clear my throat to get rid of.
His fingers close around mine as he says, “I missed you every day, Kota.”
The room suddenly blurs at the edges and I frown at my brother, shaking my head harshly.
Nope. Absolutely not. I’m not about to sit here and cry in front of my pack, my brother, and government paperwork. It’s just not on the cards for this morning.
I squeeze his hand hard enough to make him wince.
“There,” I say. “Emotional moment complete. Nobody speak of it ever again.”
Ewan sniffles loudly and I whip my head toward him. “Are you crying?”
“No,” he says through a strain. “My headphones are just really sad.”
“They’re on the table,” I point out, literally pointing them out to the whole room.
“Oi, they’re emotionally vulnerable after their surgery,” he argues. “They’re projecting their emotions and that’s okay.”
Ellis mutters, “I need stronger coffee if I’m going to stand here listening to this.”
Valeria leaves shortly after with the terms signed by me, Mercer, Ellis, and herself. Not tucked away. Not hidden. Written, witnessed, and copied. One copy goes with her. One stays with Mercer. One stays with me. A folder with my name on it sits on the table.
