Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
MAYA
The kettle screams just as Lila launches herself off the sofa, a blur of pyjamas and wild hair. “Mummy, can I have the purple cup today? Not the orange, it’s bad luck.”
“Orange is not bad luck, sweetheart,” I say, grabbing the kettle before it wakes the entire building. Steam billows up as I pour hot water over the chamomile tea bag. “It’s just a cup.”
“Then why did Daddy spill juice when I used it?”
I freeze, the mug trembling slightly in my grip.
Not Daddy. Not anymore.
I paste on a smile before I turn around. “That wasn’t the cup’s fault, Lila. Sometimes things just happen, okay? But you can have the purple one if it makes you happy.”
She nods solemnly, climbing back onto the sofa with a worn Paddington bear tucked under her arm. The fleece blanket she claimed from the donations bin is bunched around her feet, and her toes wiggle like they’ve got minds of their own.
I carry the two mugs, mine in chipped navy, hers in beloved purple, and set them down on the coffee table.
“Careful. It’s hot.”
Lila gives me a thumbs-up, all serious and dramatic, like a tiny, sleepy soldier. “Okay.”
I laugh, ruffling her curls before settling beside her. She leans into my side, warm and wriggly, and lets out a sigh so deep it tugs at something in my chest.
This is everything. Every bruise, every night lying awake wondering if I could do this, it’s all for this. A safe space. A quiet cup of tea. My daughter safe and happy beside me.
“Can we do more baking tomorrow?” she asks, cradling her mug with both hands like a little old lady.
“Tomorrow’s nursery, Lila.”
Her eyes narrow like I’ve betrayed her on a spiritual level. “But I’m the assistant baker now.”
“You are,” I say, brushing her fringe back from her eyes. “But assistant bakers still have to go to school, or they won’t learn how to calculate measurements properly.”
Lila groans and flops over so her head lands in my lap. “I already know maths. One cupcake plus one cupcake equals two cupcakes. Done.”
“Well, you’ve clearly got the basics,” I say, grinning down at her. “But we’ll need to work on fractions before you can open your own bakery.”
She perks up immediately. “I’m gonna call it Sprinkle Town.”
I smother a laugh. “Not Bear Bakes?”
“Noooo.” She wrinkles her nose. “That’s for boy bears.”
Images from yesterday’s chaotic kitchen shift float through my mind. Owen hunched over a tray of pain au chocolat, his massive hands delicately folding dough like it’s the most precious thing in the world. How Lila stared at him like he’d descended from Narnia.
How I stared too.
Ugh.
He’s massive. Absolutely ridiculous. A literal tank of a man with biceps like boulders and the gentlest eyes I’ve ever seen. Which is not a combination I know how to process. Not when my brain still short-circuits every time a man raises his voice too fast or reaches too quickly across a table.
But Owen doesn’t do either of those things.
He knocks over a stack of mixing bowls and apologises to them. And he folds croissant dough with a reverence that makes something in my chest twist.
“Do you like the bear man?” Lila asks, catching me mid-thought.
I blink. “What?”
“The bear man,” she says, matter-of-fact. “He made the chocolate rolls. And he smells like sugar. You like him.”
“No, I don’t,” I say far too quickly. “I mean, I don’t not like him, he’s just a helper.”
She stares up at me like she’s caught me sneaking biscuits. “Your cheeks were pink.”
“Were not.”
“Were too.”
I gently poke her nose. “Cheeky.”
Lila giggles and curls into me, satisfied now that she’s won.
I rest my chin on top of her head, arms wrapping around her like instinct. Protective. Always protective. It doesn’t matter that we’ve moved, that we got out. The reflex is wired into my bones.
A knock on the door sends my heart leaping into my throat.
Lila doesn’t notice, she’s too busy whispering to Paddington, but I tense, breath caught. My eyes fly to the door. Three quick knocks. Friendly? Too friendly?
I rise fast, nearly spilling my tea. “Stay here, baby.”
I pad toward the door on bare feet, heart thudding. Through the peephole, I see an older woman in a raincoat, holding a parcel.
Relief loosens something inside me. Just a neighbour. Just the woman from number five.
I open the door with the chain still on. “Yes?”
“Oh! Sorry, love,” she says, peering through the gap. “This got delivered to ours by mistake. Maya Dawson?”
I nod, fumbling the chain off. “Yes, thank you.”
“No trouble.” She hands me the box. “Looks like a baking supply delivery.”
Of course it is. I finally managed to order proper piping bags and food dye, something Lila’s been bouncing about for days.
“Thanks again.”
“Anytime, love. You and your little one settling in alright?”
I smile, guarded. “Yes, thank you.”
She doesn’t linger. Just a kind smile and a wave before heading down the hall.
I shut the door, lock it, and check the bolt. Twice. Then go back to the living room where Lila is now building a tea party for Paddington using a half-eaten apple and a hair bobble.
“Was it the post lady?” she asks, glancing up.
“Yes.” I hold up the parcel. “Look what came.”
Her eyes light up. “Is that the colours?!”
“It is indeed, Miss Sprinkle Town. We’ll try them after lunch, alright?”
“Deal!” she says, bouncing up and down.
I sit back beside her and pull the blanket over both of us. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I finally let myself breathe again.
This is the good part. This is what we’re building toward. Every careful step away from the past, every moment I refuse to be ruled by fear. It’s for this. For safety. For normal. For food dye and Sunday tea and silly cups.
For a little girl who believes bears can bake and mums can fix everything.
Even when I’m not so sure.
We stay like that for a long while, the telly murmuring in the background, the air heavy with the scent of chamomile and toast. Lila hums under her breath, one hand tangled in mine, the other petting Paddington like he’s real.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I think about the man who smells like sugar. Who doesn’t flinch when Lila smears flour on his jeans. Who tells her, dead serious, that only special bears know how to make puff pastry from scratch.
And who, for reasons I can’t quite explain, makes me laugh without it feeling like a trap.
I shake it off.
We’ve got food dye to test. A Sprinkle Town bakery to plan. And absolutely no time for gentle-eyed hockey giants with arms like tree trunks and a laminated dough obsession.
Even if he does fold croissants like he’s holding something sacred.