Page 130 of ICED
Sunlight cuts through the crack in the curtains, soft and gold. The digital clock on the nightstand says 6:43 a.m. I close my eyes again, trying to ease the tightness in my chest. Yesterday still claws at me; Jamie’s face outside the bakery. My panic. The screaming.
The way Owen ran.
The way theyallran.
Murphy and Dylan searching the alley. Ollie sprinting with Owen to get Lila.
That moment I thought Jamie might hurt her. I swallow down the fear and tell myself, again, that we are safe here. Although, I’m not sure I’ll be able to let Lila out of my sight any time soon.
Owen’s kitchen smells like coffee and cinnamon. I find him at the counter in a grey hoodie and joggers, flipping pancakes with quiet focus. Lila’s perched on a stool in her pink pyjamas, legs swinging, watching him like it’s the morning news.
“There she is,” Owen says softly, turning his head. His smile is gentle. He doesn’t ask if I slept. He doesn’t need to.
“Morning, Mummy!” Lila grins, syrup already smudged on her chin.
I kiss the top of her head and wrap my arms around myself, uncertain.
“Want tea?” Owen asks.
I nod. “God, yes.”
He pours me a mug without asking how I take it. I guess I’m predictable now. That should terrify me. Instead, it warms something low in my stomach.
I sip and watch him cook, letting the silence settle. Lila chatters about Dave the sourdough starter and whether he dreams while he’s sitting on the shelf. Owen answers like it’s the most serious philosophical debate of our time.
“Maybe he dreams about being a real loaf,” Owen says solemnly. “Like a starter’s version of becoming a butterfly.”
“Or a bagel!” Lila shouts, thrilled with herself.
I sit. I breathe. I realise; we’re still here.
And now I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to our flat. To the life I was building for Lila and me. I fought so hard to make a new start but now being here, in Owen’s house, watching my daughter gaze at Owen like he hung the moon and stars makes me realise I don’t have to do life alone. Not if I don’t want to.
I’m folding laundry later; mine, his, Lila’s all jumbled together in one basket. It’s absurd how intimate this feels. More than kissing. More than sex. Knowing which socks are his and which are Ollie’s that have somehow migrated here. I fold his navy Raptors hoodie, the one I wore last week when I couldn’t stop shaking. I tug it on again now, sleeves too long, hem brushing my thighs and it doesn’t feel borrowed anymore. It just feels like mine too.
The knock on the front door makes me flinch.
“Relax,” Owen says from the hallway, where he’s lacing up his trainers. “Just a delivery. I ordered groceries.”
I nod, try to keep my breathing steady. My hands are still shaking when I set down the folded towel.
He notices, like he always does. He walks over, slow and solid, and touches my wrist. Not grabbing, not pushing. Just a steady weight.
“We’re safe.”
I look up at him. His face is calm, steady. Unmoving in the way that only someone trained to take hits and keep going can be.
“I’m sorry I screamed,” I murmur.
He frowns. “Don’t be. You were scared. You had every right to be.”
“It was so loud.”
“And it worked. We came running.”
I press my lips together. His eyes stay on mine. “You didn’t just come,” I say. “You brought the whole damn team.”
His expression softens. “You’re one of us now. He doesn’t get to scare you anymore.”
