Page 32 of ICED
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. Thenshe 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.
