I return home, thankful that detention helped me avoid Seb, Collins and Alena, scared that any probing into the activities of my free period will either send me into a Hulk frenzy or Notebook worthy tear fest. Obviously, detention wasn't exactly the prime of my day. Elijah was certainly butthurt about my emotional outburst, refusing to even look at me as I continued researching for the essay. Usually, I'd be rather pleased at the silence that ensued, but for some reason, I had this really awful burn in my stomach. I'd have called it guilt, but that seemed unlikely.

Inside, Ezra seems to be having a much better day that me, having finally found some sort of optimism that has carried him from the safety of his bedroom to the comforts of the living room couch. Of course, the tub of low calorie ice cream sat on his lap does little to disguise the fact he's still mending his broken heart with the support of saturated fats, but the way I'm feeling, grab me a spoon.

Rather than interrupt, I kick off my shoes and throw down my bag just over the threshold. Considering there is neither a balding man sat at the breakfast bar or a tall greying woman prancing around the kitchen, I take it to be evidence enough that both my parents are still at work. Seeking comfort in food much like my older brother, I warm up the left over takeaway in the microwave, slouching myself over the kitchen counter as I eat, displaying hostility in every stab of my fork.

"Eat quietly, I'm trying to watch Tangled." Ezra shouts over at me. I raise a brow lazily and twist myself to look into the living room where in fact, on the TV, Rapunzel in dancing around in the Snuggling Duckling, frying pan in hand, singing till her hearts content.

"Aren't you twenty one?" I ask him. I see him shrug, hidden slightly behind the backrest of the sofa.

"It's a feel good movie; now sit down and enjoy the romance or bog off." He tells me. Frankly, I could do with some Flynn Rider in my life, so I concede to his proposition and sit myself on the sofa adjacent. Why can't all men be like Flynn Rider? Hot, flirty, brave, and prepared to die for me. Is it too much to ask for? "You're thinking too loud." Ezra tells me after I grumble in disappointment at the shambles that is real life.

"I'm imagining a life where Flynn Rider is my husband." I confess.

"His name is actually Eugene Fitz Herbert; if you don't know that, you're not worthy of his hand in marriage." I scrunch my face up at him before launching a cushion across the room, snorting as it hits him at such an angle that it redirects his spoonful of ice cream into his nose. "Twat." He mumbles with a scowl, making my lips twitch in amusement. I settle back on the sofa. "How was your day?" He asks eventually.

The penultimate to my death day, I imagine. Featuring tears, a devil horned ex-boyfriend, an obsessive, irritating demon, and an attitude that was completely uncalled for. Stick in the grim reaper and his scythe, then you've got a party. Rather than say that, I just shrug and say, "Fine. How was yours?"

"Better. I haven't cried. Though I'm not holding out on that one – I very often shed a tear at the end of this movie." He tells me honestly, nodding in the direction of the television.

"But he doesn't die." I inform him, which only results in the pillow being thrown at the back of my head, forcing me to jolt forward from impact.

"It's emotional, you robot." He retorts sharply. After a small moment of silence, he speaks again. "Oli called me today. He's coming home next month." I swivel round, overcome with excitement. My partner in crime to return once more. If ever a way to cheer me up.

"He is?" I ask without being able to disguise the glee in my voice.

"Yup. Says he wants to be here when Ferne has the baby. Apparently, he needs to be the first uncle it see's when it's fresh out the womb. He reckons it works like ducks and the kid will imprint on the first uncle it sees, hence making him the favourite."

I scoff, shaking my head. "He was always the genius, wasn't he?" I joke.

Ezra grins. "Not half." He takes another scoop of his ice cream. "I still can't believe she hasn't found out what it is."

I groan and slump my head on the arm rest. "I know. I want a niece." I tell him. Either a boy or a girl would be wonderful, and I'll love them all the same, but we're already a particularly testosterone ruled family, so another little girl to balance the scales would be lovely.

"Me too honestly. Dad and me have put a bet on it." I frown and wait for him to continue. "Tenner each; if it's a girl, I win, if it's a boy, he wins." I shake my head but the toothy grin refuses to disappear.

"You're both terrible." I tell him, earning a click of the tongue and wink in return.

~

When the pair of us finish watching Tangled and Ezra rather discreetly dries his eyes, I take myself upstairs. Upon noticing that my room, much to my disbelief, is in the same mess that I left it, I decide that I should probably stop living in squalor like a caveman.

I begin with filling the wicker laundry basket that sits beside my door, sniffing the clothes that lay strewn across my floor and judging whether they're worthy of returning to the confines of my wardrobe before being subjected to the washing machine.

Most are fine, so they're folded or rehung, finally allowing me to see the cream carpet that was buried beneath. It's quite remarkable, the difference it makes. Especially when I draw back the curtains and allow light to flood my room, catching the white of my furniture and making them sparkle. I make my bed, not properly, considering I'll no doubt be climbing in come an hour or so, but I dress it in the plush accent pillows and thick knitted runner, hoping the decoration will hide my tragic attempt.

I put my laptop on my desk and open it up, met instantly with the beginning of the essay. Though I've not made any addition since the introduction, I'm pleased that I've found a handful of viable references and have plenty of information that will aid me into reaping success. Then, once I've done that, I'll rub the A grade right in Hendrix's stupid face.

Hendrix. Such a terrible thought to ruin my fairly improved move. As our exchange earlier today replays in my head, I inwardly cringe. I was fairly out of order, retaliating like that. Although, I don't exactly blame myself for being wary. Hendrix has never exactly been compassionate, his humour limited to my regular ridicule in verbal assaults and practical pranks, but today, he did sound strangely sincere. And I shot him down with my regular method of act now, think later. Leave it to me to set up of the worst footing for the next twelve weeks.

When my phone chimes, I throw myself back on to my bed, but immediately jump back up when I see the sender of the message. Of course, it's slightly cryptic, but I'm almost confident it's who I believe it to be.

Daddy Hendrix: I've had 3 aneurisms writing this. What am I doing for the essay? I want to be involved.

I gawk at the message for quite an embarrassing length of time. Not just at the fact he's messaged me, but the contents. He want's to be involved? Surely he's suffered a severe, personality-changing head injury.

Mike Tyson: 3 aneurisms? Huh, and here I thought my day couldn't pick up.

In maybe a minute, I receive a response just as arrogant as I expected.

Daddy Hendrix: As charming as ever I see. Now, back to what I need to do for this essay. I actually want to pass this class.

Mike Tyson: Then your help is negligible. I could write a better paper than you could during a colonoscopy.

Daddy Hendrix: As much as I'm sure you enjoy having long things shoved up your arsehole, I'm not sure how relevant it is to childhood development.

Mike Tyson: Listen here wank stain, I want to pass this class too. So maybe, stop bothering me so that I can focus on something other than your long, brutal murder. Three times a day.

Daddy Hendrix: Threaten me all you like; you don't scare me over message.

Mike Tyson: So I scare you in person?

Daddy Hendrix: I neither confirm nor deny these allegations.

Mike Tyson: Duly noted. Now, I'm starting to develop my own aneurism from having to tolerate this conversation, so if you'd kindly fuck off <3

Daddy Hendrix: You can take your heart back. I don't want it. A topless pic wouldn't go amiss though. Just don't include your face.

Mike Tyson: God, it must really be exhausting being such an insatiable pervert. Tell me, do you feel yourself up when you peek through windows, or do you take the mental image to the wank bank for later?

Daddy Hendrix: While I'm sure the image of me wanking is doing wonders for your masturbatory fantasies, let's get back on topic shall we. What do I need to do for this essay?

Daddy Hendrix: Osborne, this isn't negotiable. Unless you'd like me to go to Mrs Ford and tell her that you're making this an unbelievable difficult task.

I pause as the second message comes through. While I was quite enjoying writing an extraordinarily creative reply on how he can put his offer where the sun doesn't shine with the help of a baseball bat and strawberry lubricant, his dedication to the cause makes me falter. To my surprise, it seems he actively want to help. More than that, I don't need him running off to the teacher and telling her I'm being exceptionally non-compliant.

Mike Tyson: Do years 2-4 and conclusion. We'll combine both sections together then proofread.

Daddy Hendrix: I'll proofread. It seems stupid to have the illiterate do that.

Mike Tyson: Go suck a dick Hendrix.

Daddy Hendrix: You first.

Though I'll never admit it, knowing that now I only have half of an essay to do makes the entire experience slightly less excruciating. I even feel generous enough to send on some of the links to the published papers I have found to Elijah, only for a scowl to overcome me once more when he responds with the absolutely not-funny-at-all reply of 'Unless they're porn links, I'm not interested'. I thought there was potential for a much better response than that.

In fact, I actually manage to get quite a substantial amount done, leaving me fairly confident that I'll at least have a week break between this essay and the torture of looking after the robot baby.

Now pleased don't get it confused. I'm aware my incessant whining does little for instilling confidence that I'm actually suitable for a career to work around them. I love children. I can't wait to one day have my own. I'm over the moon that Ferne is pregnant and I certainly can't wait to meet my niece (or nephew) because I'll certainly be the best auntie in the world. Believe me, I've already found a mug on amazon that says so.

Genuinely, it's not children that are the problem. I baby sit occasionally for my neighbours for a little bit of money. I've even thought about looking at getting myself involved in childcare professionally throughout university. Kids really aren't an issue. I'm patient with them, considerate, like a completely different person actually. However, I know me and this robot child are going to have an massive problem.

I've heard horror stories about how demanding they are. Overly actually, too much for even a newborn. They cry incessantly, deprive you of sleep, demand and demand and cry and cry and I have to tolerate six weeks! Because I'm not stupid, the minute that baby starts crying and doesn't shut up, Hendrix will feel more than compelled to toss it from his roof and I'm pretty sure something like that will do little for our chances of passing the project. No doubt I'll have to be ready every day, twenty four hours, to co-parent with the bane of my existence.

That's why I'm whining.