Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
When Sloan let herself in again that evening, she was halfway through mentally drafting the email she still needed to send before she could properly switch off for the evening.
The hallway light was on.
She frowned.
Matty was there, crouched by the radiator with her rucksack open at her feet, stuffing her purse and phone inside as though she’d been about to leave. She looked up at the sound of the door and froze for half a second.
“Oh,” she said. Then she smiled. “Hi.”
Sloan stopped with one hand still on the door.
There was something disarming about finding her there in the narrow hallway, coatless, hair tied up in that scrap of fabric she seemed to favour, one foot tucked under her as she crouched.
She looked comfortable, familiar—as if she belonged in the shape of the house.
“Hi,” Sloan said.
Matty stood up, dusting her hands on her jeans. “Perfect timing.”
Sloan frowned slightly. “For what?”
Matty stepped forward, fingers already at Sloan’s lapel, light and quick as she eased the jacket from her shoulders before Sloan could decide whether to object.
The touch was brief. Barely anything. But Sloan felt it anyway—a clean line of heat that seared from the point of contact straight down her spine.
Matty pulled the jacket free from Sloan and turned to hang it up.
“Thanks,” Sloan said, a fraction too late.
Matty glanced back over her shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
The look lasted a second too long—long enough to leave Sloan standing there, absurdly aware of herself.
Then the smell hit her—butter…garlic for sure. Rosemary and cooked tomatoes, maybe? Something savoury and rich enough to make her realise she was starving.
She looked past Matty towards the kitchen, sniffing the aromas.
“What’s that?”
Matty followed her gaze as if she’d forgotten. “Oh. Dinner.”
Sloan stared at her.
“Well, Gloria was watching one of those films where everyone looks miserable in their stately home and nobody says what they mean, so I had a bit of time on my hands.” She bent to zip up her bag. “I made pasta bake. Did a bit of cleaning. Thought I may as well make myself useful.”
Sloan said nothing.
Matty straightened, bag in hand, and seemed to register her expression properly. “I hope that’s alright. I know it’s your house. I just... There wasn’t much else to do, and she’d settled, so...”
“No,” Sloan said quickly, “it’s fine. Really.”
Matty’s face eased.
From the lounge came Gloria’s voice, dry as old paper. “If you two are done loitering in the hall, some of us are trying to hear this.”
Matty bit back a smile.
Sloan followed her into the kitchen.
The table had been laid. Nothing elaborate, just plates, cutlery, glasses, and a dish in the middle with the pasta bake still gently steaming under a tea towel. The scene should not have done what it did to her. It was just a table. In her own kitchen. Set for dinner.
And yet...
Matty put her bag down by the back door and reached for oven gloves. “Sit down. You look like you’ve had a day.”
Sloan rested a hand on the back of a chair. “This is...lovely.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Matty peeled back the tea towel, and Sloan stepped closer before she could stop herself.
“It smells good,” Sloan said.
Matty looked up at her then. “Thanks.”
Again, with that look—direct, warm, entirely too steady.
Sloan reached for the serving spoon at the same moment Matty did. Their fingers knocked together. Neither of them moved straight away.
“Sorry,” Matty said, though she didn’t sound sorry.
“Go on,” Sloan told her.
Matty’s mouth twitched, and for a moment, neither of them looked away.
Then Matty drew her hand back and turned to the plates. “Right. Well. Since I’m cooking, I may as well dish up, too.”
Sloan sat, mostly because standing there watching her felt too obvious.
Matty moved around the kitchen with an ease that should have irritated Sloan, and yet it didn’t. Matty knew where the plates were now. Knew which drawer the serving spoons lived in. Which tea towels were clean. Absently, she talked as she worked, as if her actions and presence were ordinary.
“Your mum’s had a decent day, actually,” she said, spooning pasta onto a plate. “She watched telly most of the afternoon. Had a proper argument with a crossword around three.”
Sloan looked up. “A crossword?”
“Mm. One clue wouldn’t fit and apparently that was a personal attack.”
That got a smile out of Sloan.
“She did eventually get it,” Matty went on, “though not before accusing the setter of being illiterate.”
“That sounds like her.”
“Then there was a documentary about stately homes, which she said was boring but watched all the way through. And she had a biscuit with her tea and pretended she didn’t want it.”
Sloan watched her as she spoke. She noticed the easy movement of her hands, and the way she tucked the serving spoon against the side of the dish to stop it dripping. She was talking about Gloria’s day as though it mattered; as if the small details were worth carrying over and handing back.
No one had ever done that.
Usually, the report was a list of problems, giving a summary of what Gloria had refused, or thrown, or said. A handover—efficient, clinical, necessary.
This felt different.
Matty set a plate down in front of Sloan.
“She ate lunch,” she continued. “Took her tablets without trying to negotiate a hostage release. Didn’t throw anything at me. Honestly, I’m starting to think she likes me.”
Sloan looked up at that.
Matty was smiling, but only just.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small, too intimate.
“I’m impressed,” Sloan said, and meant it more than she’d intended to let show.
Something shifted in Matty’s face—not surprise exactly—something quieter. Pleased, maybe, or caught off guard by the sincerity?
“Well,” Matty said, reaching for the water jug she’d set on the sideboard, “don’t tell her that. She’ll ruin the streak.”
Sloan laughed, and Matty smiled properly then, quick and bright and impossible not to feel somewhere low and inconvenient.
Matty came around the side of the table with the water jug, and Sloan found herself tracking the movement before she could pretend not to.
The closer Matty got, the more aware Sloan became of everything at once—the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of dinner, the soft squeak of Matty’s shoes against the tiled floor.
She filled the glass by Sloan’s plate, her fingers brushing Sloan’s knuckles as she poured. Barely any touch at all, but Sloan felt herself go still.
Matty must have noticed, because when she straightened, she did it more slowly than was necessary.
“How was your day?” she asked.
Sloan smiled at the question and wondered if she should say exactly how her day had been. Instead, she said, “Long.”
Matty nodded. “You looked tired when you came in.”
“I admit, I do feel a little exhausted.” She picked up a fork and dug into the pasta.
“Good thing I’ve fed you, then.”
Sloan looked at her as she raised the mouthful. “It’s appreciated.” She took the bite and made a sound that matched the feeling. “God, this is…so good.”
Matty held her gaze for a moment, then looked away first, turning back to the dish.
“You didn’t have to do any of this,” Sloan said when she’d finished chewing.
Matty’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I know.” She turned then, one hand braced on the sideboard behind her. “But your mum was settled. I had time. And...” She glanced round the kitchen, suddenly less sure of herself. “I don’t know. It felt nice making myself useful.”
Sloan looked at her for a long moment.
Matty had probably cleaned half the downstairs, cooked dinner, managed Gloria, and was now standing there acting as if none of it were worth remarking upon.
Domestic. Sweet. Dangerous.
From the lounge, Gloria shouted, “If that food’s getting cold while you two stare into space, I’ll be furious.”
Matty snorted and looked down.
Sloan felt heat rise up the back of her neck.
“I should take hers through,” Matty said, reaching for another plate.
“I’ll do it,” Sloan offered, standing at the same moment.
They moved at once and nearly collided.
Matty caught the edge of Sloan’s sleeve to steady her. Sloan’s hand landed briefly against Matty’s waist.
They both stopped.
It was nothing. Less than nothing.
But Sloan could feel Matty’s warmth through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. She could feel Matty’s fingers still lightly closed around her sleeve, and knew with humiliating clarity, the exact second Matty noticed where Sloan’s hand was.
Neither of them spoke.
Then Matty let go.
Sloan stepped back first. “Right,” she said, though she had no idea what she was saying ‘Right’ about.
Matty cleared her throat. “Right.”
From the lounge came Gloria’s voice again, shouting, “I’m old, not dead. But I’m starving.”
That broke it.
Matty laughed under her breath and reached for the plate. “I’ll take hers in before she reports us both to the authorities.”
Sloan watched her go, plate in hand, moving through the doorway into the lounge like she had always belonged there.
And that, more than the dinner, more than the cleaned surfaces or the jacket lifted from Sloan’s shoulders with easy hands, was the thing that unsettled her most.
Because for the first time in longer than she cared to think about, coming home had felt just that: Home.