Page 58 of ICED
Maya groans dramatically every time Lila adds more olives to her plate. I take a few myself just to back her up. When Lila says we’re part of the Olive Club now my heart melts a little more.
By the time the last slice disappears, Lila is drooping against Maya’s side, thumb half in her mouth, eyelids heavy.
“Alright, Olive Queen,” Maya murmurs, brushing a hand through her hair. “Bedtime.”
Lila whines a little but doesn’t protest. I help tidy up the boxes while Maya carries her off, murmuring lullabies in low tones I can’t hear.
I rinse dishes and let the silence stretch. Trying not to feel the ache of how natural this all feels.
Maya returns ten minutes later, barefoot, wearing leggings and one of those long, oversized jumpers that make her look warm and soft and too beautiful to be real.
Her hair’s down. She tucks a strand behind her ear and leans on the counter.
“She asked if you’d come again tomorrow.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah?”
“I said maybe. If we’re lucky.”
I dry my hands and face her. There’s a quiet between us, but not awkward. Just full. Full of all the things we’re not saying. All the things we want to.
She steps a little closer and I match it.
“Thanks,” she says softly.
“For what?”
“The skates. The car seat. The pizza. All of it.”
“You don’t have to thank me for wanting to show up.”
Her eyes shine and she blinks fast.
I lift a hand, brush my fingers lightly against hers. “You okay with this?”
She nods, slow. “Scared. But yeah.”
“Me too,” I admit.
Then I lean in, slow and careful, like I’m waiting for permission with every inch.
She meets me halfway.
It’s not a dramatic kiss. No fireworks. No sweeping strings.
Just warmth. Trust. The gentle press of lips that says,I see you. I’m here.
When we part, she rests her forehead against my chest.
“Stay for five more minutes?” she whispers.
I nod. “Yeah. I can do five.”
Though if she asked for forever, I’d say yes to that too.
We move to sit at the table. The kitchen is quiet now, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the muffled sound of Lila talking in her sleep from the other room. Maya’s curled one leg under herself, her hand wrapped around her mug like it’s still full, though she hasn’t taken a sip in ten minutes.
Her eyes are distant. Not faraway-in-a-dream way. Faraway-in-a-memory kind of way. I don’t speak. I just let her sit with it, because I’ve learned silence can be gentler than questions.
