Page 65 of ICED
“You always this confident around kids?” I ask, trying to tease the mood lighter.
He shrugs. “I’ve got three younger sisters. Changed a lot of nappies. Spent a lot of weekends building sofa forts. You learn.”
I grin. “Let me guess, you were the dragon they had to slay?”
He chuckles. “Nah. I was the cuddly giant guarding the treasure. Which was usually biscuits.”
“Oh, obviously.”
“Still is, if we’re being honest.”
I laugh, and he grins at the sound.
Lila interrupts to ask if he knows any penguin facts. He does. He knowsloads.
By the time we’ve worked through a shared tiramisu and two cappuccinos, plus one strawberry milkshake that Jacko insisted on ordering for Lila just because she blinked at the picture on the dessert menu, it’s well past her bedtime. She fights sleep all the way back to the truck, humming half-asleep from the back seat and chattering through yawns.
Jacko keeps glancing at her in the mirror as he drives, his big hand resting on the steering wheel like it was made for it.
“You’re knackered too,” he murmurs when we pull up outside the flat. “Want me to carry her in?”
I blink. “You don’t have to,”
“I know. Let me.”
He gets out and opens the back door, careful not to jostle her too much as he unbuckles her and lifts her into his arms. She curls into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like shetrustshim.
And watching him carry her inside, careful as anything, I realise I do too.
He doesn’t even blink at the narrow stairwell. Just adjusts her weight in his arms and waits patiently while I unlock the door.
Inside, the flat is warm and dim, the hall light buzzing faintly. Jacko carries her straight to her room like he’s done it before. Like he knows where everything is.
He doesn’t, of course. But he moves like he wants to. Like he wants tolearn.
He lays her down on her bed and steps back as I pull off her coat and boots. She doesn’t wake.
“She’s out cold,” I whisper.
“She’s heavier than she looks,” he whispers back, smiling.
I walk him back to the door, heart thudding in my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with stairs or bedtime.
He lingers in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say. “For… all of it.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Thanks for saying yes.”
There’s a moment, quiet and crackling, where I could just say goodnight.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean against the doorframe and ask, “Would you… want to do it again?”
His smile breaks slow and bright. “Every night if you let me.”
