Page 62 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

That she might.

That she will, unless I lock this down.

"Fight or flight, Liam," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. The streetlights cast flickering shadows across the interior of the car as I contemplate the idea of losing her—like hell I'll let thathappen. Maybe it's time to fight for something, for once. To fight for her.

Pulling up outside Ma's building in Fort Point, I cut the engine and sit for a moment, taking in the sight of her apartment complex. It's a stately old building, with wrought iron balconies and windows that catch the last glimmers of the setting sun. She's been here about ten years now, a far cry from the academic bustle of Harvard where I spent my childhood.

This is where I feel most at peace, even more than my own place on Beacon Hill. Maybe it's the Irish lilt in Ma's voice or the way she always knows how to cut through my crap with a look. Or maybe it's the shepherd's pie and whiskey that tastes like home.

Whatever it is, I need it tonight. I need the grounding before I decide what comes next with Shiloh.

I grab the bouquet of lilies from the passenger seat and push open the car door, stepping into the crisp evening air. The lilies are Ma's favorite—she claims they remind her of home in Ireland, though I reckon it's just because they're as stubborn and resilient as she is.

The lobby is quiet, save for the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The elevator dings as I press the call button, and I step inside, hitting the button for the fifth floor.

As the elevator ascends, I try to steady my thoughts, but Shiloh's face flickers behind my eyelids; her laugh echoes in my ears, and I can't help but feel a twinge of fear at the thought of stepping into whatever comes next with her.

When the doors slide open, I stride down the hallway, the scent of fresh paint and old wood mingling in the air. I reach Ma's apartment, pausing for a second before knocking on the door.

"Come in!" Her voice, unmistakably warm, floats through the door.

Pushing it open, I step inside and am met with the familiar sight of her open floor plan apartment, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun streaming through the large windows.

Ma stands by one of them, an artist's brush in hand, focused on a canvas propped up on an easel. She's painting a still life of an orchid, its petals vibrant against the dusky backdrop of the city skyline.

"Thought you might be bringing flowers," she says without turning around, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile that reaches her eyes. "Got a vase ready for you in the kitchen."

"Never could keep anything from you, could I, Ma?" I say, moving toward the kitchen as I admire her work. The orchid on the canvas seems alive, almost pulsing with a silent, captured energy—a testament to her skill.

"Ah, not often, love," she chuckles, glancing over her shoulder with that keen gaze that's always been able to read me like her favorite novel. "You know where to find the vase."

I nod, unable to suppress the smile that creeps onto my face. I head into the kitchen and find the vase—a simple, glass affair that's seen better days but holds more memories than most of my possessions combined.

I fill it with water from the tap, a little too fast at first, then slower, watching the bubbles rise and pop. Carefully, I place the bouquet in the vase, adjusting the stems until they sit just right.

"Ma, how are you doing?" I call out, trying to sound casual as I glance over to where she’s now dabbing a bit of color onto the orchid’s throat.

"Grand, Liam. And yourself?" She doesn't look away from her painting this time. "There's a shepherd's pie in the oven; should be ready soon. Take a peek for me, will ya?"

"Sure thing." I pull open the oven door, the heat brushing against my face like a welcome home. Inside, the shepherd's piebubbles under a golden crust, but not quite enough. "Needs a few more minutes," I say, closing the door gently.

"Good, good," she murmurs, pausing to clean her brush on a rag. "And how've you been, love? You alright?"

"Same old, same old," I lie, trying to keep my tone light. The words feel heavy and foreign on my tongue like they don't belong to me at all.

"Is that so?" She finally sets her brush down and turns to face me, wiping her hands on her smock.

Her eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but with the kind of intense focus that comes from years of peering at fine details through lenses of paint and patience. I can feel her gaze on me, searching, probing beneath the surface as if I'm one of her canvases.

"Ma, why are you staring like that?" My voice is steadier than I expect, but there's an edge to it, a hint of defensiveness.

She frowns, and I notice a flicker of concern in those hazel eyes that have seen so much of life.

"Liam," she starts, "when you were a boy, you'd look just like that when you were trying to hide something. Spill it now. What's eating at you?"

"Nothing." The denial slips out too fast, the lie transparent as glass. I avoid her gaze, pretending to be interested in a non-existent spot on the gleaming kitchen countertop.

She chuckles, the sound rich and knowing. "That's the same face you'd make in high school when you were sneaking off with some girl you weren't supposed to see. You think I wouldn't recognize it?"

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