21. Chapter 21
Jack
By the time the car pulls into the hospital drop-off it is just after seven.
I have not properly stopped moving since the phone call.
Airport. Security. Flight. Driver. Motorway. My brain has been running scenarios I don’t want to think about, even after Ava told me Alfie was stable. Even after I saw his face on video, pale but very much himself.
Especially after that, if I am honest.
Because seeing him and not being able to get to him is its own special kind of torture.
The club arranged the driver from Manchester straight to Carlisle. I barely remember the journey. I know I thanked him. I know he said something about the match. I nodded like a functioning adult.
No idea what he actually said.
All I could see was Alfie sitting on that hospital bed with his arm in a bright blue cast like it was some sort of bizarre prize.
“Look Dad!” he had said proudly on the video call. “I got blue!”
I wasn’t quite able to share his joy.
“And look what Granny got me,” he had added, producing an alarming quantity of sweets from the bedside table.
My mum had looked completely unrepentant.
“He’s had a difficult day.”
My dad had just nodded like this was obviously correct grandparent behaviour.
Ava had been sitting beside him, one hand resting lightly on his leg while he talked. Not fussing. Not hovering. Just there. Calm. Steady. Like she understood that sometimes presence matters more than words.
I push through the hospital doors and head straight to reception.
“My son was admitted this morning. Alfie Westland.”
The receptionist types quickly.
“Yes, he’s on the children’s ward. Second floor. Lift to your right.”
“Thank you.”
I am already moving before she finishes.
The lift takes too long.
Everything takes too long.
When the doors open I walk fast down the corridor, following the signs, the quiet hum of machines, the strange calm hospitals seem to settle into after visiting hours.
I slow when I reach the bay one of the nurses pointed me to.
Not deliberately.
My body just does it.
Because I can hear her before I see her.
Ava is singing.
Softly. Not performing. Just… singing. Like she is filling the quiet rather than breaking it.
I don’t even recognise the song. Something gentle. Something old. Her voice is not trained but it is warm and careful and completely focused on one small boy.
I step closer and look through the small gap in the curtain.
Alfie is asleep.
His arm is in the blue cast. There is a small dressing near his hairline. His cheeks are still slightly blotchy from earlier tears but he is fast asleep now, breathing slow and even.
Ava is sitting pulled right up to the bed.
One hand is resting in his hair, her fingers moving slowly like she does not even realise she is doing it anymore. The other is loosely holding his hand.
She keeps singing even though he is already asleep.
Something in my chest goes very quiet.
She is not trying to prove anything.
She is not trying to impress me.
She is just looking after my kid like it is the most natural thing in the world.
I must shift my weight because she looks up.
For a second she just stares at me like she is making sure I am actually there.
Then she smiles.
Soft. Tired. Relieved.
“You made it,” she whispers.
I nod because if I try to speak right now I might not manage it.
I step inside.
Up close I can see the tiredness she has not bothered to hide. Her hair escaping whatever she did with it this morning. A faint crease on her cheek from where she must have leaned against the mattress earlier.
“You stayed,” I manage quietly.
She looks faintly puzzled.
“Of course I stayed.”
Like there was never another option.
My throat tightens.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Much better,” she adds softly. “But less scared. He was very brave.”
That lands somewhere deep.
I step closer to the bed and very carefully brush my fingers over his hair.
He doesn’t wake.
I let out a breath I think I have been holding all day.
When I look back at Ava she is watching us quietly. Not inserting herself. Not stepping back either. Just… there.
Alfie shifts slightly in his sleep and his fingers tighten around hers without waking.
I look at their hands.
Then at her.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say quietly.
Her eyes meet mine.
“Yes,” she says gently. “I did.”
Not dramatic.
Not romantic.
Just certain.
And for the first time since this morning, something inside me unclenches.
Because my son is safe.
And the woman I am falling for is sitting beside him like she has nowhere else she would rather be.
Morning arrives slowly. Too bright. Too early. Too full of quiet interruptions and plastic cups of tea that taste vaguely of disappointment.
Neither of us has really slept.
We dozed in shifts. I took the chair after I arrived. Ava refused to go home. At some point around four Alfie woke confused and upset and we both leaned in at the same time, hands landing on him like some unspoken agreement.
Now, in the honest light of morning, we both look wrecked.
Ava’s glasses are slightly crooked like she fell asleep wearing them. Her neat bob is sticking out on one side where she must have rested against the chair. There’s a faint red mark across the bridge of her nose from the frames. She looks like someone who has had a rough day.
Yet she has never looked more beautiful to me.
Alfie, meanwhile, appears to have made a miraculous recovery powered entirely by attention and hospital biscuits.
“Dad!”
He sits up the second he sees me properly this time, as if I might disappear again.
“Careful,” Ava says automatically, already steadying him before he even wobbles.
“I’ve got a broken arm,” Alfie announces proudly, like he personally arranged it.
“So I see,” I say. “Very impressive work.”
“I get to tell everyone.”
“I imagine you will.”
A doctor comes in not long after and crouches slightly so he is at Alfie’s level.
“Jack, this is Alfie’s doctor. Dr Patel,” Ava introduces us.
He nods at me before turning his attention to Alfie.
“Morning. How are you feeling today?”
“Okay,” Alfie says. “My arm hurts a bit.”
“That makes sense. Can you tell me what happened yesterday?”
“I fell on the stairs.”
“And did you bump your head?”
Alfie nods carefully and points at the dressing. “Here.”
“Good remembering,” Dr Patel says. “Do you know where you are now?”
“Hospital.”
“And who brought you here?”
“The ambulance. And then Ava came.”
He says her name like she belongs in the story. Like of course she does.
Dr Patel smiles. “Very good.”
He checks Alfie’s pupils again, asks him to follow his finger, then stands.
“He’s doing well,” he tells us. “Concussion symptoms are mild. We kept him overnight just to be safe. Broken radius, which you already know. Just keep things calm for a few days. No running. No climbing. No rough play.”
Alfie considers this very seriously.
“Can I still eat pudding?”
Dr Patel smiles. “Yes.”
Alfie nods. “Okay then.”
Ava makes a small choking sound that is definitely laughter she is trying to hide.
“We’ll discharge him this morning,” Dr Patel continues. “Just keep an eye on him. If he becomes very sleepy, dizzy, or sick, bring him straight back. Otherwise he should be fine at home.”
Home.
That word brings a certain relaxation to me.
The drive back feels strangely calm. Alfie talks almost the entire way, retelling the story of his accident with increasing heroic detail. Ava sits in the back beside him, listening as if she hadn’t already heard the story at least five times.
She asks questions in the right places. Laughs softly when he expects it. Never corrects the parts that get wildly exaggerated.
By the time we get home Alfie is running on the last of his energy. The crash is obvious now the excitement is gone.
We settle him carefully on the sofa. Ava arranges the pillows so his arm is supported without being jostled. I tuck the blanket around him while she hands him one of his dinosaur comics from the stack on the coffee table.
“Is that alright?” she asks.
He wiggles slightly.
“Can you move this one?” he says, nodding at a cushion.
She adjusts it immediately.
“Better?”
“Better.”
He opens the comic and is quiet within seconds, which is always the real sign he’s tired.
The front door opens not long after.
“There’s my patient,” Mum calls as she comes in.
Alfie looks up, already smiling.
“Granny.”
She bends to kiss the top of his head. “How’s my brave boy?”
“I’m okay.”
She smooths his hair. “I thought you might like spaghetti with the tiny meatballs.”
His eyes light up.
“And,” she adds casually, “jam roly-poly.”
That gets her a full beam of delight.
“Best Granny,” he declares.
“I know,” she says calmly.
Then she straightens and pulls me into a quick, firm hug.
“How are you?” she asks quietly.
“Better,” I admit. “Just… tired.”
“That’s allowed,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.
Then she turns to Ava and gives her a brief, warm hug too. Not awkward. Not formal. Just included.
“Thank you again,” she says. “For staying with him.”
Ava looks slightly embarrassed by the attention.
“He wasn’t going to be on his own,” she says softly.
Mum nods like that confirms exactly what she already thinks.
“Well,” she says briskly, already moving towards the kitchen, “I’ve got him now.”
She gestures vaguely towards the stairs.
“You two. Bed.”
“We’re fine,” I start automatically.
She gives me a look I have known since childhood.
“Jack.”
Right.
I surrender.
“You look exhausted,” she adds. “Both of you. Go and sleep before you fall over. Lunch will be ready when you wake up.”
Alfie looks up from his comic.
“Do you have to fly back to your football game?”
There is something careful in the question.
“No,” I say, crouching beside him. “No more flying today. Ava and I are just going to have a nap before lunch. Is that okay?”
He considers this like it is an important negotiation.
“Okay.”
I press a kiss to the top of his head.
“I love you, mate.”
“Love you, Dad.”
Then, almost immediately:
“Granny? Can I have a hot chocolate?”
From the kitchen comes, “After you’ve had some water first.”
“Okay,” he says, already turning back to his comic.
I straighten and reach for Ava’s hand without really thinking about it. She lets me, her fingers sliding into mine like this has become normal.
I lead her upstairs.
Neither of us says much. We are past conversation. Past politeness. Just tired in that bone-deep way that comes after adrenaline burns off.
In my bedroom I pull open a drawer and hand her a T-shirt and a pair of soft lounge shorts.
“They’ll be huge,” I warn.
“That’s probably a bonus,” she says.
She disappears into the bathroom to change while I swap my jeans for soft black shorts and an old training T-shirt. When she comes back the clothes are, as predicted, much too big. The T-shirt hangs off one shoulder. The shorts are rolled twice at the waist.
She looks small in them.
Comfortable.
Dangerously domestic.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much,” she says, pushing her glasses up and giving me that tired, honest smile she only seems to have when she forgets to be self-conscious.
We climb under the duvet without ceremony. No seduction. No teasing. Just two people who haven’t slept enough.
She lies on her side facing me. I lie on my back for a second, staring at the ceiling, feeling the quiet of the house settle around us.
Then she shifts slightly closer.
Not dramatic.
Just… closer.
“You scared me yesterday,” she says softly.
I turn my head.
“I know.”
“I could hear it,” she admits. “You were trying to sound calm. You weren’t.”
“No,” I say. “I wasn’t.”
She studies my face like she is checking something.
“He’s okay,” she says, more to reassure me than herself.
“He is.”
I reach for her then. Not urgent. Just needing contact. My arm slides around her waist and she comes willingly, tucking herself against me because she fits there.
She takes her glasses off before curling up against me. Her hand comes to rest lightly on my chest. I can feel how tired she is in the way she melts into me.
“Thank you,” I murmur into her hair.
“You already said that.”
“I’ll probably say it again.”
She lets out a quiet, sleepy laugh.
“You don’t have to thank me for caring about him.”
“I do.”
She tilts her head back slightly to look at me.
“You’d have done the same.”
“Yes,” I admit. “But not everyone would have done it without being asked.”
She goes quiet at that.
Then she says, very softly, “You did ask.”
I think about that.
About the hesitation. About not wanting to push. About how easily she said yes.
“I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” I admit.
Her fingers trace a small, absent line on my T-shirt.
“You are,” she says.
Simple as that.
Sleep is already pulling at both of us now. The words come slower.
“He reached for you,” I tell her. “Yesterday.”
She stills slightly.
“He needed someone safe,” she says.
“He chose you.”
That lands between us.
She doesn’t answer straight away. Just presses a small kiss against my shoulder, almost absent-minded.
“I chose him too,” she murmurs.
That does something to my soul I don’t quite have words for.
A minute later her breathing evens out.
I stay awake just long enough to realise I haven’t felt this calm in a very long time.
Then I fall asleep with her in my arms.
I wake slowly.
Ava is still here.
Curled against me, one hand resting on my chest like she fell asleep mid-thought. My T-shirt is twisted around her like she belongs in it. Alfie’s voice drifts up the stairs, explaining something very important about dinosaurs to my mum.
Normal sounds.
Safe sounds.
I used to think the big moments were the ones that mattered. The matches. The wins. The decisions everyone else could see.
Turns out it’s this.
A woman who stayed.
A woman who didn’t make it complicated.
A woman my son trusts without even realising he’s doing it.
I brush a strand of hair away from her face and she stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.
She’s it for me.
Not a maybe.
Not a see-how-it-goes.
Not something temporary while life figures itself out.
Her.
If she wants this… it’s her. For as long as she’ll have me.
I press a soft kiss into her hair and close my eyes again with a smile on my face, because somehow, against all odds, I got it right. She’s my kind of happy.