Chapter 11
Chloe
Pain has weight.
It settles low, insistent, like it’s claimed squatter’s rights and plans to stay. I am wrapped in a blanket I don’t remember fetching, watching something I am not following, negotiating silently with my uterus like this is a hostage situation and I am very bad at bargaining.
The doorbell rings.
I stare at the ceiling.
No.
It rings again.
It is eleven thirty on a Sunday morning. Far too early for anything Tom-related. Even in a romcom fever dream he wouldn’t be delivering food yet. And nobody else has any business whatsoever to ring my doorbell. Not today of all days.
With a groan that feels earned, I haul myself off the sofa and shuffle to the intercom, pressing the button with all the enthusiasm of someone answering a summons.
“Yes,” I say. “Who is it?”
The intercom crackles.
“Delivery for Chloe.”
I frown. “That’s not possible.”
There’s a pause. “I’ve got Chloe, flat 3B.”
“That’s my flat,” I say slowly. “But I haven’t ordered anything.”
Another pause. Paper rustling. A faint sigh.
“It’s already paid for,” he says. “And it says I need to hand it to you.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Look,” he says, the politeness thinning. “I’ve got three more drops and a bike that doesn’t enjoy waiting. If this isn’t yours, I’ll leave it by the door and we’ll both move on with our lives.”
“No,” I snap. “Don’t leave it.”
There’s a beat.
“Then you might want to come down,” he says. “Because I am, strictly speaking, not allowed to argue through intercoms.”
I close my eyes. Count to three. Lose patience at two.
“Fine,” I say. “Stay there.”
I drop the blanket still draped over my shoulders, grab my keys, and stomp towards the stairs, every step a personal insult. By the time I reach the ground floor, I’m fully committed to being unreasonable.
He’s waiting, foot tapping, paper bag hooked over one arm like it’s offended him personally.
“You Chloe,” he asks, already half turning away.
“Yes,” I say. “And for the record, threatening to abandon mysterious parcels is not great customer service.”
He blinks, then grins despite himself. “For the record, refusing deliveries with your name on it is also not textbook.”
Touché.
He holds out the bag. “There’s a note. I’ve been instructed to read it out.”
I sigh. “Please don’t.”
“I really have to,” he says, already scrolling on his phone to wherever he has whatever message. “It says so. And it is long.”
He clears his throat, adopts a voice that suggests he’s enjoying this far too much.
“Hi Chloe. This is a care package to help you through the Peri Peri Chicken phase. It is intended to reduce pain, improve mood, and discourage arson. Dinner will follow later. Please accept with zero judgement and minimal eye contact.”
I feel my dignity make a break for it.
“There’s more,” he says brightly.
“Stop,” I plead.
“Can’t,” he replies, apologetic and relentless. “Instructions continue.”
“Items selected with care and restraint. Side effects may include relief, gratitude, and a reluctant admission that men are occasionally useful. Tom.”
He puts his phone away, hands me the bag, and looks genuinely pleased.
“Honestly,” he says, “best delivery of my shift.”
I take the bag, mortified and warmed in equal measure.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“Feel better,” he says, already stepping back.
I watch him mount his bike, then turn towards the stairs and I retreat upstairs, paper bag in hand, dignity dragging somewhere behind me.
Once inside my flat, I lock the door and lean against it for a moment, breathing like I’ve just completed something athletic rather than walked up two flights of stairs while hormonal.
I place the bag on the living room table.
Brown paper with Sainsbury’s printed in a bold font. Sturdy. Judgement-free.
“Fine,” I tell it. “Show me what you’ve got.”
I open it.
Painkillers. The decent ones. Not the sort that require faith or supplements. I nod approvingly.
A brand-new hot water bottle, still folded, tag attached. I pause, then set it down carefully, like it deserves respect.
A large bar of proper chocolate. Milk. Maybe even hazelnut. Absolutely not dark. I exhale in relief.
“Thank you,” I say aloud to no one in particular.
Two packets of Bourbon biscuits. Two. Which feels less indulgent and more strategic.
A family-size bag of crisps. Salt and vinegar. Aggressive flavouring. No restraint.
Peppermint tea. Not aspirational. Not calming meadow nonsense. Peppermint. Specific. Practical.
I keep unpacking.
A pair of fluffy socks. Thick. Grey. Sensible. I stare at them for a moment longer than necessary.
A packet of baby wipes.
I narrow my eyes.
“Oh my god,” I mutter. I don’t want to explore further what Tom’s reasoning behind them was.
There’s also a microwave wheat bag, lavender-scented, and a small bottle of electrolyte drink that tastes like lemons.
At the bottom of the bag is something thinner. Lighter.
A paperback.
Children’s section thin.
I pull it out.
A cartoon hen, arms crossed, expression murderous.
I snort before I can stop myself and immediately regret it, pain flaring in protest.
“Why the fuck did he send me this?” I mutter.
I turn it over, then back again, and finally read the title.
Henrietta Is Not in the Mood.
I close my eyes but I can’t hold back the laugh.
“That’s just rude,” I tell Hadrian. He does not disagree.
There’s more.
A colouring book slips out next. Not aspirational. Not mindful. Just shapes and patterns clearly designed to keep hands busy without demanding emotional growth. A packet of felt-tip pens follows, with thirty-two different colours.
I sit back against the sofa and look at it all.
Not dramatic. Not showy. Just… thought-through.
Which is, frankly, worse.
I pick up my phone.
Me
Okay but the angry hen book feels personal.
The phone stays stubbornly blank. Then the little dots start dancing.
Tom
I thought you might appreciate representation.
Me
Henrietta looks like she wants to set fire to things.
Tom
That felt on brand.
Me
The colouring book was a bold choice.
Tom
I assumed quiet activities and very low expectations.
Me
The socks were a power move.
Tom
Cold feet make everything harder.
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
My chest tightens in that annoying way that suggests feelings are happening and I have failed to intercept them in time.
I type. Delete. Type again.
Me
I’m actually very grateful.
There. No jokes. No armour.
A pause follows. Long enough to feel intentional.
Tom
You don’t have to be.
Me
I know. But I am.
I look at the gifts again. The careful choices. The absence of showmanship. The fact that he didn’t make me ask.
Me
No one’s ever done this for me before.
The message hangs there, naked and alarming.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Tom
I’m glad it’s helping.
Me
It is. More than I expected.
I swallow, blinking hard at nothing in particular.
Me
Thank you. Really.
This time he replies quickly.
Tom
You’re welcome. Anytime.
I set the phone down and sit there for a moment, letting the warmth settle in alongside the ache.
This wasn’t big or loud or romantic in the way people tell stories about.
It was practical. Kind. Considerate.
And somehow, that makes it feel more dangerous than anything else.
Because this isn’t the sort of thing you brush off.
It’s the sort of thing that stays.
The hot water bottle has gone lukewarm again.
I swap it out for a fresh one, moving carefully, chocolate wrapper folded into a neat square on the coffee table because I am tired, not feral.
The colouring book lies open where I abandoned it, one mandala half purple, half aggressively red, which feels telling.
A plate with the crumbs of several biscuits sits nearby, evidence of a meal that barely qualifies.
The flat smells faintly of peppermint tea.
Just as the kettle comes to a boil, the doorbell rings.
Probably the food, just in time for a very late but very much needed lunch.
I shuffle back to the intercom, pressing the button with a resigned sort of hope.
“Hello?” I say. “Who is it?”
“It’s Tom.”
I freeze.
“Tom?” I repeat. “As in you?”
“Yes.”
There’s a beat where my brain tries to catch up and fails.
“I thought you were sending food,” I say.
“I am.”
“That usually involves someone else delivering it.”
“I’ll explain upstairs.”
“You could explain now.”
“I could,” he agrees. “I won’t.”
I close my eyes.
“Men,” I mutter. “Utterly incapable of communicating through intercoms.”
“I’m communicating,” he says mildly. “I’m just not answering questions while standing on the pavement.”
I consider my options. There are none I like.
“Fine,” I say. “Second floor.”
I hang up and immediately open my door, leaning against the frame before the sense hits me that I am wearing socks, a cardigan that’s buttoned wrong, and the general air of someone who has been emotionally supported by biscuits all day.
There is no time to correct any of this.
Footsteps hit the stairs almost immediately. Fast. Ridiculously fast. Like the stairs are a suggestion rather than an obstacle.
I push myself upright just as he appears, two large paper shopping bags swinging lightly at his sides, breathing barely affected.
“Oh,” I say, because it’s all I’ve got.
“You look comfortable,” he says, taking the last steps two at a time like he’s showing off.
“You sprinted,” I accuse.
“I walk quickly,” he replies.
“With bags.”
“Yes.”
I step aside because I am not about to argue physics while hormonal.
“The kitchen’s through there,” I say, pointing towards the open archway at the back of the living room. “That bit that looks like it shouldn’t be trusted.”
“Got it,” he says, already moving.
He crosses the living room quickly, careful but unhesitating, passing the sofa with the blanket draped over it and the colouring book abandoned on the arm like a confession. He doesn’t comment. I notice that too.