Chapter 15
Jack
Iwake before the alarm.
For a few seconds I don’t move because I don’t immediately remember where I am. Then I feel her.
Warm against my side. One hand resting lightly on my chest like she fell asleep there without meaning to. Her hair is a mess across the pillow. Her glasses folded neatly on the bedside table.
The room is quiet. Early-morning London quiet. The kind that only exists for about twenty minutes before the city remembers itself.
I check the time.
03:58.
Two minutes.
I should move. I should be sensible. Instead I just lie there watching her breathe.
She shifts slightly, her fingers tightening briefly against my chest.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs without opening her eyes.
I huff a quiet laugh. “You’re awake.”
“Proofreaders notice things.”
Her eyes open slowly. For a second she looks almost surprised to see me. Then the memory clearly lands and a faint colour rises in her cheeks.
“Morning,” she says softly.
“Morning.”
There’s no awkwardness. Just that strange quiet intimacy that only exists when two people have crossed a line and neither regrets it.
“You still leaving at five?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She nods, but she moves a little closer rather than away. Like she’s decided to spend the time rather than waste it pretending this is casual.
“Can I ask you something?” she says after a moment.
“Ask away.”
She hesitates, like she’s deciding whether she’s allowed to ask.
“Alfie’s mum,” she says carefully. “Are you… in contact?”
There’s no judgement in it. Just quiet curiosity.
I take a slow breath.
“She was supposed to be a one-night stand,” I say honestly.
Ava doesn’t react. Just listens.
“She told me about the pregnancy pretty late. Third trimester late.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “That must have been… a shock.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“What did you do?”
“What you’re supposed to do,” I say. “I showed up. We tried to make a relationship work. She wanted that. I wanted to do the right thing.”
“And?”
I look at the ceiling for a second.
“You can’t build a relationship on recognition and good intentions,” I say. “Turns out fame isn’t actually a personality trait.”
That gets the smallest snort from her.
“Shocking.”
“Apparently women eventually want you to be an actual human being.”
“And were you?”
I think about that.
“I tried. But we barely knew each other. We were forcing something because of Alfie, not because of us.”
Ava’s voice is very quiet now. “What happened?”
“After he was born, we gave it a few more months. But she was unhappy. I think she realised she didn’t want the life that came with being a footballer’s partner. Or a mum.”
I pause briefly.
“One day she said it wasn’t working. And she was right.”
Ava’s fingers shift slightly against my chest. Not pity. Just presence.
“And Alfie?”
I swallow once before answering.
“She decided she didn’t want to be involved.”
Ava goes very still.
“She just… left?”
“She didn’t disappear dramatically,” I say. “No big fight. No scene. Just… opted out.”
“That must have been hard for you.”
“It was harder imagining what it might mean for him one day,” I admit. “Babies don’t know. Five-year-olds don’t really know. But one day he’ll ask better questions.”
“And what will you say?”
“The truth,” I say. “That she wasn’t a bad person. Just not someone who wanted to be a parent. And that he wasn’t unwanted.”
My voice drops slightly.
“Because he absolutely wasn’t.”
Ava’s eyes soften.
“You’re a very good dad,” she says quietly.
I shake my head slightly. “I just try not to mess him up too badly.”
“That’s the job description of all parents, I think.”
I smile faintly.
She traces a small line on my arm without realising she’s doing it.
“Does he ever ask about her?”
“Sometimes. Mostly practical questions. Where is she? What does she do? Why doesn’t she visit?”
“And?”
“I tell him she lives somewhere else and has a different life. Which is true.” I pause. “And that he’s very loved where he is. Which is the important part.”
Ava nods slowly.
“That makes sense.”
“Alfie’s not actually Alfie on paper,” I say after a moment.
Ava glances up at me. “No?”
“Alfonso.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Alfonso?”
I smile faintly. “His mum was Italian. He was conceived while I was managing in Italy and she loved the name.”
“That’s actually quite lovely.”
“Try being called Alfonso in a primary school in Cumbria,” I say dryly. “He worked out pretty quickly that Alfie made life easier.”
Ava laughs softly against my chest. “Children are brutal.”
“Savage little creatures.”
A small silence settles again. Softer this time.
Then she says quietly, “That must have been lonely. Becoming a dad like that.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “It was.”
Her hand tightens slightly over mine.
“You don’t seem lonely now,” she says.
I look at her.
“No,” I say honestly. “Not right now.”
The alarm goes off.
Neither of us moves immediately.
Then Ava smiles slightly. “We ordered cuddle time.”
“We did.”
So I pull her closer again.
I keep my arm around her, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breathing as the alarm fades into silence.
For a moment I just lie there thinking about what she said. About how carefully she listens. How she doesn’t jump in with easy reassurances. How she treats things like they matter.
“What about you?” I ask quietly.
She tilts her head slightly. “What about me?”
“Dating. Family. Did you… never want kids?”
She snorts.
An actual snort. Completely unfiltered.
“Wanting children isn’t always the problem,” she says. “Finding someone who also wants to be the dad tends to be the sticking point.”
That surprises a quiet laugh out of me.
“That bad?”
She shrugs slightly. “I always had a bit of a structural problem.”
“That sounds very you.”
“I find most men boring.”
I blink. “That’s… brutally honest.”
“It’s not even meant badly,” she says. “I just… never really clicked with the whole performance of dating.”
“What performance?”
“The pretending to be more outgoing than I am. Pretending I enjoy loud pubs. Pretending I don’t notice things.”
I smile slightly. “You definitely notice things.”
“That’s part of the problem,” she says dryly. “A lot of men say they don’t want an extrovert. What they mean is they don’t want someone louder than them. They don’t mean shy women who correct their spelling.”
I laugh quietly. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“You’re brave.”
“I’m socially incompetent,” she corrects. “Different skill set.”
I grin. “What happened?”
“They didn’t like it,” she says simply. “Turns out most people don’t enjoy being told they’ve used your instead of you’re while trying to flirt.”
“That seems unreasonable.”
“I thought so.”
She traces small patterns against my arm, not looking at me now.
“I was always shy. That part never changed. But I was never willing to pretend I didn’t know things when I did. Knowing things was… kind of the only thing I had going for me.”
I frown slightly. “That’s not true.”
She gives me a small look that says let me finish.
“I’m not particularly pretty,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’m not naturally funny like Chloe. I’m not effortlessly cool like AJ. I’m the quiet one who reads the instructions.”
“That sounds like a very useful person to know.”
“It’s not very exciting on a date.”
“It is to the right person.”
She ignores that.
“So I kept that one thing. Being clever. Being observant. I wasn’t willing to give that up just to be easier to date.”
That lands somewhere deep in my chest.
“Good,” I say quietly.
She shrugs again, but there’s vulnerability under it.
“I’ve dated. I’ve even had a short relationship in my twenties. But in your twenties especially… most of the men I met wanted to go out, get drunk, be loud. That was never really my world.”
“No?”
“I like quiet. Conversations. Knowing how people think. I was never going to meet my great love doing tequila shots.”
“That does reduce the candidate pool.”
“Significantly.”
“And later?”
She exhales slowly.
“Later you get comfortable,” she says. “You build your routines. Work. Home. Friends. Books. And suddenly you realise you only ever go to three places.”
“Work, supermarket, home?”
She points at me. “Exactly.”
“Not exactly a rich dating environment.”
“No. And I wasn’t miserable. That’s the thing.” She glances at me. “I wasn’t sitting at home pining. I just… didn’t meet anyone who made me want to rearrange my life.”
There’s a small pause.
“Until now?” I ask carefully.
She studies me for a long second.
“I didn’t expect you,” she says honestly. “You weren’t even remotely on my list of possible life complications.”
I smile faintly. “Professional hazard.”
“I mean it,” she says. “You’re so out of my league.”
“Ava—"
“You’re confident. You talk to strangers. You run a room without trying.” She studies me. “And yet somehow, you’re also… calm. And kind. And you listen.”
I don’t say anything.
“And then there’s the single dad thing,” she adds quietly. “That’s not exactly a casual variable.”
“No,” I admit.
She hesitates slightly.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she says softly. “But for the first time it doesn’t feel like I have to pretend to be someone else to be interesting enough.”
I brush my thumb lightly along her arm.
“You don’t,” I say quietly. “Not with me.”
She nods slightly.
“And that,” she admits, “might be why I ended up naked with you twelve hours after meeting your son.”
I chuckle. “That does seem like a strong indicator.”
She smiles against my shoulder.
I shift slightly, then without really thinking about it I guide her gently onto her back. She lets me, watching me like she’s trying to understand something rather than just react to it.
I brace one arm beside her, leaning over her, close enough to feel her breath catch again.
“What?” she asks quietly.
I lock eyes with her.
“You have a very inaccurate self-assessment,” I tell her.
Her brow furrows. “Excuse me?”
“I like that you notice things,” I say. “Most people don’t. They just… exist loudly.”
That earns a small smile.
“I like that you knew about the velociraptors having feathers.”
“That is a scientifically supported position.”
“I like that you say things like that with complete seriousness.”
She snorts softly.
“And you are funny,” I continue.
“I am not funny.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I am observant. That’s different.”
“You tricked me into looking away so you could score,” I remind her.
“That was tactical brilliance.”
“That was a fake distraction.”
“That was the goal.”
I grin. “Exactly. Funny.”
Her cheeks warm slightly but she doesn’t look away.
“And you’re beautiful,” I say.
She immediately shakes her head. “Let’s not—”
“I’m not talking about Paris catwalk beautiful,” I say quietly. “Who the hell needs that.”
She goes still.
“I mean the kind you notice slowly,” I continue. “The kind that gets more distracting the longer you look.”
My fingers brush lightly along her hairline.
“Like this spot,” I murmur, kissing her temple. “Where your hair never quite behaves.”
Her breath stutters slightly.
“These,” I say, brushing my thumb under her glasses mark and kissing the faint indentation on her nose. “Proof you actually live in your own head most of the time.”
A small, helpless laugh escapes her.
“These dimples,” I continue softly, kissing the corner of her mouth, “because you always look like you’re about to say something clever but aren’t sure if you should.”
Her hand comes up to my shoulder without her seeming to realise it.
“And this,” I say, kissing just below her ear, “because you go pink when you’re being brave.”
She exhales my name very quietly.
“And this,” I murmur, my hand settling over her heart, “because you feel everything properly even when you pretend you don’t.”
She swallows.
“No one’s ever said things like that to me,” she admits.
“They should have.”
My mouth finds hers again. Slower this time. Softer. Not the urgent heat from earlier. Something steadier. Intentional.
Her hands slide up my back as she kisses me with a quiet confidence that wasn’t there yesterday.
This time it isn’t about urgency.
It’s about staying.
About learning each other slowly. Touch becoming familiar instead of exploratory. Heat building in that quieter way that feels somehow more dangerous.
Outside London is waking up to a new day.
Inside we forget about the time for a little while longer.