Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JACKO
Idon’t knock right away.
I stand on Maya’s doorstep with a tin of still-warm gingerbread men in one hand and my heart doing laps in my chest. The hallway of her building smells like damp stone and laundry detergent, and I can hear the faint hum of someone vacuuming two doors down.
Normal. Ordinary. Nothing like the tightness twisting in my chest right now.
Because last night, her alarm went off, and even though she texted this morning to say everything was fine, just a system fault, no big deal, I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
About her. About the fear I heard between the lines of her message.
About how she’s always pretending she’s fine, even when she’s not.
So, I baked.
It’s what I do when I’m useless in every other way. Mix flour and butter, roll dough until it calms the noise. And then I show up like an idiot with a tin full of comfort and zero game plan.
I lift my hand and knock.
There’s a pause. The sound of small feet on the floor. A muffled voice, and then the sound of the chain being undone.
When the door opens, Maya’s there in leggings and an oversized jumper, hair scraped into a messy bun, eyes cautious.
She tilts her head. “Is that the gingerbread?”
I lift the tin slightly. “Didn’t know how else to say I was thinking about you. This seemed safer than flowers.”
Something in her face softens. Just a flicker, but I see it.
“Come in,” she says, stepping back.
I toe off my shoes at the door automatically and follow her into the flat. It smells like fabric softener, and something else I can’t name but know is just her. The radiator ticks faintly, and Lila’s toys are lined up in colour-coded perfection along the edge of the sofa.
“Where’s the kiddo?” I ask, voice quiet.
“Bed,” she replies, crossing into the kitchen. “They had a puppet show this morning. She nearly exploded with excitement and then she crashed when we got home.”
I follow her, feeling bigger than usual in this delicate space. She sets the tin down on the counter and flips the lid.
There’s a second of silence. Then she picks one up and bites its head off.
“You make angry gingerbread men?” she asks, chewing.
“I might’ve projected some feelings onto them,” I admit, leaning against the counter. “That one’s called Brian. He was the oven’s first casualty.”
Her lips twitch. “RIP, Brian.”
I let the silence stretch a beat longer, watching her. There’s something tight in her posture today, even tighter than usual. Her shoulders are pulled up, her spine too straight. She’s holding herself together like if she breathes too deep, she might shatter.
“How are you?” I ask, carefully.
She keeps her eyes on the biscuit tin. “Fine.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I am,” she insists, biting the leg off another gingerbread man. “It was just a false alarm. Happens sometimes. The system glitched.”
“And you always sleep in your daughter’s bed after a glitch?”
She flinches. Just slightly. But it’s enough.
I shake my head, slow and steady. “I’m not trying to dig, Maya. Just... you don’t have to lie to me.”
She finally looks up, and for a second, I see the fear. The raw, unshielded part of her she usually keeps tucked away. And then it’s gone again, locked behind sarcasm and a raised brow.
“You always turn up with baked goods when you call someone out?”
“Only the ones I really like.”
That earns me a blink. And then finally a small smile. Not the full, wide kind she gives Lila, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward and it’s enough to make my chest feel like it might split.
“You’re such a sap,” she mutters, but her voice is softer now.
“Guilty. Been watching too much Bake Off again.”
Maya leans her hip against the counter, arms folded. “You’re not what I expected.”
I snort. “You thought I was a brute.”
“I did,” she says, no hesitation. “Big, tattooed hockey guy who probably growls instead of speaking and smashes things for fun.”
“Well. I do growl. Usually when there’s no chocolate left in the locker room.”
That earns me a real laugh. Quick and surprised, like she didn’t mean to let it out. She claps a hand over her mouth, as if it slipped.
“Sorry,” she says quickly.
“Don’t be.” I grin. “It’s nice.”
We lapse into a quiet rhythm after that. She makes tea, I clear the sink like a weird houseguest who doesn’t know his place. But she doesn’t stop me. She lets me move through her kitchen, lets me exist in her space, and that feels big.
“Got cleared to play today,” I say after a beat.
She glances over. “Really?”
“Yeah. Mia gave me the all-clear this morning. Said my shoulder’s boring now, which is apparently physio speak for ‘healed enough to throw myself at people again.’”
Maya lifts an eyebrow. “And you’re happy about that?”
I shrug. “I mean, it’s my job. But I’ve missed playing.”
“Do they know you bake angry gingerbread men in your spare time?”
“They do,” I mutter. “Murphy took a bite of one and told me it tasted like repressed emotional damage. He’s not wrong.”
She laughs again, this time it’s less guarded. The kind that sticks in my ribs and stays there.
I don’t say anything. Just soak in the sound like it might vanish if I try too hard to hold onto it.
Then she sets her mug down. Wraps both arms around herself, even though the flat isn’t cold. Her voice shifts. “Sometimes I hate how much you notice.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t mean to.”
“I know.” She tips her head back, eyes closed for a second like she’s bracing herself. “But it’s easier when people don’t.”
She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to. I’m not pushing tonight, not when she’s already letting me in more than I expected.
So, I nod. “Okay. I’ll notice quietly.”
Her eyes flutter open. “You’re so weird.”
“Thank you.”
That earns me another smile. A proper one this time, crooked and a little tired, but real.
There’s a long pause. Then she glances toward the hallway, where Lila must be sleeping behind her bedroom door.
“You want to sit for a bit?” she asks, like it costs her something to offer but she’s doing it anyway.
“Sure.”
We settle on the sofa. She perches on one end, legs folded under her. I sink into the other corner, careful not to take up too much space, like always. There’s a fuzzy throw between us. I don’t touch it.
She reaches for another gingerbread man, Brian’s cousin, and stares at it.
“My ex used to show up with flowers after a fight,” she says suddenly. “Usually after he’d scared me. Or said something awful.”
My throat goes dry. “Maya,”
She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. But I see the pulse in her neck, the white-knuckle grip on the biscuit.
“I just… when you turn up like this, it makes me forget that kindness isn’t always manipulation.” She turns the gingerbread over in her hand. “Which is unfair to you. I know that.”
“No,” I say gently. “It’s not.” She looks up, surprised. “It’s not unfair,” I continue. “You’ve got reasons to be wary. You’re protecting yourself. And Lila.”
She doesn’t reply. Just nods, eyes glassy now, like she’s trying hard not to cry.
So, I keep my voice soft. “I’m not him. And I don’t want anything from you. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want me to. But I’ll keep showing up anyway. Because I care. That’s it.”
Her breath hitches. For a second I think she might get up. Shut down. But instead, she pulls the throw between us onto her lap and smooths it with shaking hands.
“You’re good at this,” she murmurs. “At making people feel safe.”
My throat tightens. “Takes one to know one.”
She huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh. Then she leans back, curling into the corner, gaze drifting toward the biscuit tin.
“Next time you bring gingerbread,” she says, voice quiet, “make them smiley.”
My heart does something stupid in my chest. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her lips tug into the tiniest smile. “I think I’m ready for smiley.”
I don’t move. Don’t push. But inside, I tuck those words away like something precious.
“I’ll bring icing too,” I say. “Let you decorate them yourself.”
She lets out a soft, tired chuckle. “Control freak’s dream.”
We sit there a while longer in the quiet. Two people with too many sharp edges, learning how to soften them.
And for the first time, I think maybe this isn’t just wishful thinking.
Maybe we’re building something here. Something small. Something real.
Something worth waiting for.