4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Abigail
T he kitchen smells divine, the rich aroma of beef, onions, and gravy wafting from the oven as I pull the cottage pie out, its golden, cheesy crust bubbling just slightly around the edges. I set it on the hob to cool and glance at the clock on the wall… 6 p.m. on the dot.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter to myself, wiping my hands on a tea towel.
Layla sits at the oak dining table, her little tongue sticking out as she focuses on colouring in a tabby cat in her book. The crayons are scattered around her, a cheerful mess of colours. She hums softly to herself, the kind of tuneless melody only a six-year-old can create.
The table is already laid—simple but cosy. Plates, cutlery, and glasses sit in their places for three, though I’m starting to wonder if the third setting is wishful thinking. Jon hadn’t exactly jumped at the dinner offer earlier.
“Mummy, do cats like cheese?” Layla pipes up, holding up her crayon as if the question is part of her artistic process .
I chuckle, leaning against the counter. “Some do, but it’s not very good for them. Why?”
Her face scrunches in concentration. “I’m making the cat eat cheese. Should I change it to fish instead?”
“Well, cheese is fine for now,” I reply. “But if you want to make it a healthy cat, maybe draw some fish on the plate too.”
She beams at me before she goes back to colouring with focused determination.
Just as I’m about to turn back to the pie and start dishing up—because let’s face it, he’s probably not coming—the sound of footsteps stops me in my tracks. My heart skips, though I couldn’t tell you why.
And then Jon appears in the doorway, looking slightly out of place but somehow perfectly at home at the same time. He’s changed into a dark jumper and jeans, his hair still damp from what I assume was a recent shower. He looks... well, he looks good. Rugged, maybe, with just the right amount of scruff on his jaw. He even makes glasses look sexy. Stop it, Abby!
He hesitates for half a second, his eyes scanning the room—the table, the cottage pie on the hob, Layla’s crayons scattered like confetti.
“Evening,” he says politely.
“Evening,” I reply, keeping my tone cheerful but not too bright. Don’t overdo it, Abby.
Layla looks up from her colouring, her eyes lighting up when she sees Jon. “Are you having dinner with us?” she asks curiously, the way only a child can.
Jon shifts awkwardly, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “If that’s still alright,” he mutters, glancing at me like he’s half-expecting me to change my mind.
“Of course it is,” I say quickly, motioning towards the empty chair. “Have a seat. Dinner’s just ready.”
He nods once, stepping further into the kitchen. As he sits, Layla’s eyes stay fixed on him, wide and curious. I can see her little brain whirring, already full of questions.
I grab the serving spoon and start dishing up the cottage pie, feeling Jon’s gaze flick towards me every so often. Layla, of course, breaks the silence first.
“Do you like cats?” she asks, holding up her colouring book to show him the half-finished tabby.
Jon leans slightly closer, studying the picture with a faint smile. “That’s a good cat,” he says. “I had one like that when I was a kid.”
“You did?” Layla’s eyes go wide. “What was its name?”
“Basil,” Jon replies, his tone softening ever so slightly. “He was a bit of a troublemaker.”
Layla giggles, delighted. “I think this one’s called Cheese,” she decides, holding up her masterpiece proudly.
I glance at Jon as I set the plates on the table. His lips quirk into the faintest smile, and for a moment, the grumpiness I’ve come to associate with him fades.
“Cottage pie,” I announce, setting a plate in front of him. “All you can eat, as promised.”
“Thanks,” is all he replies.
Always so polite, Mr Peterson. I have to hold back a giggle at that thought.
As we settle in, the atmosphere shifts—easy, warm, and unexpectedly comfortable. I can’t help but feel a small sense of accomplishment as I watch Jon tuck into his food. Maybe, just maybe, this grumpy guest isn’t as impenetrable as he seems.
The clatter of forks and knives fills the kitchen as the three of us enjoy the cottage pie. Layla, ever the chatterbox, starts off with her usual inquisitiveness, her head tilted slightly as she watches Jon eat.
“Do you like cottage pie?” she asks, her fork hovering over her plate.
Jon glances up, clearly not expecting to be part of an interrogation. “Yeah, it’s good,” he replies curtly, then adds, “Thank you,” almost as an afterthought.
Layla grins, apparently satisfied with his answer. “What’s your favourite food?”
Jon hesitates, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know... steak, maybe.”
Layla gasps, her eyes wide. “Like in the big restaurants on TV? With the green stuff on the side?”
“Exactly like that,” Jon says, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice.
“You must be really rich if you eat steak all the time,” she declares, poking at her mashed potato. That causes Jon to chuckle. He actually chuckled. You can guarantee that my little sunshine can make even the hardest grump smile.
“So, what’s your job?” she pipes up again, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, her dinner forgotten.
Jon looks up from his plate, his fork pausing mid-air. He glances at me, perhaps hoping for rescue, but I just smile and take another bite of pie.
“I’m a doctor,” he says after a moment.
Layla’s eyes widen. “A real doctor? Like the one who fixes broken bones and makes people better? ”
“Something like that,” he replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “I work with children most of the time.”
“Like me?” Layla asks, her excitement bubbling over. “Do you help kids like me?”
“Sometimes, yes,” he says, cutting into his food. A darkness settles on his face.
“Layla,” I cut in gently, giving her a pointed look. “What did I say about interrogating people during dinner?”
She pouts slightly but sets her fork down, clearly gearing up for another question.
“And put your colouring book away, please. You know we don’t eat and colour at the same time,” I remind her, nodding toward the brightly coloured pages still sprawled across the table.
“Fine,” she sighs dramatically, gathering up the book and placing it on the counter. But as soon as she’s back in her seat, her attention shifts right back to Jon.
“What’s your favourite animal?” she asks, as if it’s the most pressing question in the world.
Jon raises an eyebrow but answers without hesitation. “Dogs.”
“Oh!” she exclaims, her face lighting up. “We don’t have a dog. Mum says they’re too much work. Do you have a dog?”
Jon shakes his head, cutting into his food. “No, not anymore.”
Layla’s expression shifts to one of genuine concern. “What happened to it?”
“Layla, love,” I interject, sensing Jon’s discomfort. “Let Jon eat his dinner, yeah?”
She sinks back into her chair, muttering a quiet, “Sorry. ”
Jon, to my surprise, softens a little. “It’s alright,” he says, glancing at her. “You ask good questions.”
Layla’s smile returns, and the light in her eyes is impossible to miss.
For the next few minutes, the only sound is the clink of forks against plates, the conversation settling into a companionable silence. Even Jon seems a little more relaxed, though his posture remains as straight as ever.
After finishing her last bite, Layla jumps down from her chair and announces, “I’m going to watch TV!”
“First you get ready for bed, then you can watch a little TV,” I remind her of our usual routine. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth!” I call after her as she dashes up the stairs, her footsteps a rhythmic thud on the wooden steps.
“Goodnight, Jon!” she shouts from the landing.
“Goodnight, Layla,” he replies, his voice a touch warmer than before.
I smile to myself as I clear the plates, glad to see even a flicker of softness from him. “Tea?” I ask, turning toward him. “I’ve got some muffins too, if you fancy dessert.”
Jon hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Thanks.”
I pour the tea and plate up a couple of muffins, setting everything down on the table. Jon leans back slightly, his hands wrapped around the mug, and I notice some of the tension in his shoulders has eased.
“It’s nice here,” he says suddenly, his gaze flicking around the kitchen. “Quiet.”
“Not too quiet, I hope,” I reply, sitting down across from him.
He shakes his head slightly. “No, it’s good. Peaceful. ”
We sip our tea, the warmth of the moment sinking in, until Jon’s voice breaks the stillness.
“Can I ask, I mean… tell me if you think it is none of my business but … can I ask, where’s Layla’s dad?”
The weight of the question lingers in the air, and I feel my throat tighten for just a moment. Jon’s expression is open, his grey eyes steady but not intrusive. He’s waiting, but not demanding, and somehow that makes it easier to respond.
“He died,” I say softly, folding my hands together on the table. “Four years ago. It was a hit and run. We lived in Leeds then. He was out for a run… one of his favourite things to do on the weekends.”
Jon doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his focus sharpening, his attention unwavering.
“They never found the driver,” I continue, my voice even, almost detached. It’s a story I’ve told before, a wound I’ve worked hard to smooth over. “Layla was only two at the time. Too little to understand, really. She still asks about him sometimes, but... she’s so young. She mostly remembers him through stories I tell her.”
I glance up at him, trying to gauge his reaction. His face remains calm, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, of something he doesn’t say out loud.
“It must’ve been…” Jon starts, his voice low, but then he stops, as though unsure how to finish.
“Hard?” I offer with a wry smile. “Yeah, it was. But we managed. You do, don’t you? Somehow you just keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
Jon nods slowly, his hands resting on the table. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it feels heavier now, filled with something unspoken. I busy myself with clearing the mugs and muffin plates, needing to move, to do something.
“You’re strong,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness.
I glance over my shoulder at him, startled by the quiet sincerity of the words. “I don’t know about that,” I reply lightly. “You just... do what you have to, don’t you? For the people who need you.”
Jon doesn’t reply, but there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. He’s not just listening. There is something in his eyes that tells me he has experienced grief. I wonder if this is why he is here. I wait for him to say anything, but he doesn’t, and it feels wrong to pressure him.
I clear my throat, breaking the moment. “Anyway,” I say, forcing a brighter tone, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, I am full.” Jon rises from his chair, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft. “For the meal. And for... sharing that.”
I nod, offering a small smile. “What time would you like to have breakfast?”
“Is eight okay?”
“Absolutely. It’s actually a good time. Layla will have been picked up by the school bus at that time so you can enjoy your meal without having to answer a thousand questions.”
A rare smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He lingers for just a second longer, his gaze holding mine, before he excuses himself and heads for the stairs. I watch him go, the sound of his footsteps fading, and I exhale a long, slow breath .
The kitchen feels different now, quieter somehow, and I can’t quite shake the feeling that something between us has shifted, even if neither of us is ready to name it.