Page 57 of That Defining Moment

“Okay. Whatever your family needs, Sander. I’m right here. Just call any time you need to.”

Lysander nodded as he picked at a thread on his jeans, then realised that the alpha wouldn’t be able to see him. “I will. Tell Cassian that my dad is going to be fine. I know he’ll worry.”

“I’ll tell him. He’ll want to bring something for Colin.”

“Please make sure he doesn’t pack his suitcase full of healing crystals.”

Hamish’s laugh was quiet, warm, and exactly what Lysander needed to hear. “No crystals. I’ll check his luggage before we leave.”

Lysander closed his eyes. “Hamish?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you for picking up.”

“Sander.” Hamish’s voice dropped. “I will always pick up for you, even though it’s been a while since you sent me a nudie pic.”

By the time Lysander said goodbye and hung up, he was smiling. The mirror above the sink showed him a pale, blotchy face, the skin beneath his eyes bruised with exhaustion. He ran the tap cold, splashed water on his cheeks, and watched it drip off his chin. Then he pocketed his mobile, reminded himself that Diwa needed coffee and Tala needed her big brother, and went to find the canteen.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The baby bottle warming system that Diwa had purchased had six settings, a digital display, and a steam circulation feature that he was explaining as if he thought Lysander had at some point acquired a physics doctorate to go with Ryland’s.

“It pasteurises at the optimal—”

“Diwa,” Lysander said, from the kitchen island where he was hunched over a notebook covered in his own handwriting. “It’s a kettle you bought for £2000.”

“It’s not a kettle.” Diwa held up a finger without turning around. “A kettle boils. This circulates steam at a controlled temperature to preserve the immunological profile of the donor milk.”

Diwa set Tala’s bottle into its slot, pressed two buttons in sequence, and watched the digital display climb. The milk arrived weekly in insulated packaging via a volunteer on a motorbike, courtesy of a milk bank to which Diwa had made a donation so large that they’d named the industrial freezer they’d bought from the funds after Tala. Diwa had been sent a photo of the sign stuck onto the freezer door with a magnet shaped like a star. It was finger-painted by a former beneficiary of the bank, now four.

From upstairs, the thin, drilling cry of a newborn cut through the floorboards. Diwa glanced at the ceiling, then at the warming system’s display, running the maths on which would peak first: the milk temperature or Tala’s fury.

“She’s got lungs,” Lysander offered.

“Proper Huxley lungs.” Diwa pulled the bottle from its slot and tested a drop on the inside of his wrist.

Lysander waved him off and returned to his notebook. The pages were a mess of arrows, circled phrases and margin notes so dense they’d started colonising the gutters, all radiating outward from a central statement he’d underlined three times: THERE IS NO “JUST” ONLINE ANYMORE.

The podcast didn’t have a name yet. It had seven pages of mind-mapping taped together across the studio desk downstairs, a folder of test recordings backing up on Diwa’s rig, and Meredith Walton’s attention. Hamish had made the introduction weeks ago, and Meredith had turned out to be exactly as terrifying as advertised. Her first voice note had opened with “You’ve had millions of people paying to watch you come, which is entirely different from getting them to listen to you finish a thought, so let’s find out if there’s a show in you or just a following,” and closed with an offer to walk him through distribution, hosting platforms, and the specific hell of RSS feeds whenever he was ready.

He wasn’t ready. He was closer than he’d been a week ago, though. Nine takes of his own story sat on the hard drive in Diwa’s studio, each one a fractionally better version of the same ugly facts. His voice was still higher and thinner than he’d like on playback, but by the ninth take it didn’t matter; the story had found its shape.

His calls with Hamish had become the scaffolding of his evenings. Lysander would finish a shift with Colin, retreat to the studio, and ring Hamish as he sprawled across the leather seat. They’d talk for hours about structure and format, then eventually, the podcast talk would thin out and they’d just chat.

Hamish’s film on the Family of Light had already been doing well even before the assault, drawing a steady viewership and critical praise. Then the news coverage over Uriel’s attack had detonated the figures overnight. The inquiry into the Family of Light, announced two weeks later, had kept them climbing, and now the BBC had picked it up for a prime-time slot.

“Hamish and Cassian are coming over soon,” Lysander said, as Diwa bent to retrieve a tiny yellow sock with frilly edges from under the island.

Diwa set the bottle in the sink. “Can’t wait! Colin’s been wanting to meet them both for ages.”

“I’ll sort hotel bookings this week, then. Find somewhere nearby so they’re not in the way.”

Diwa turned around like Lysander had just insulted him. “This house has five bedrooms, Lysander. You’re family. My own mother would give me up as hopelessly westernised if I let you stay in a hotel. Colin, Tala and I want you here.”

“You sure?” Lysander asked.

Diwa laughed. “Lysander, I cannot wait to see Cassian and Ryland in the same room,” he said, as they moved towards the stairs together.