Page 27 of Rescue

As I start to gather the dishes, Jon moves to help. “You don’t have to do that,” I protest.

“I made the mess. I’ll help clean it,” he says simply, already stacking plates. His tone leaves no room for argument, so I don’t bother trying. First, I check on Layla and when I'm reassured that she is taking her bath seriously I head back to give Jon a hand.

We work side by side, the sound of running water and clinking dishes filling the space between us. Every so often, our shoulders brush, and I feel a warmth creep into my chest that has nothing to do with the kitchen’s lingering heat.

“Thank you,” I say quietly after a moment. “For tonight. Layla had a wonderful time.”

Jon glances at me, his lips curving into a faint smile. “No, I have to say thank you. She made sure I had a great time.”

For a moment, the chaos of the kitchen fades away, and it’s just the two of us standing there. A subtle shift in the air leaves me wondering if there’s more to say—but before I can figure it out, Jon turns back to the dishes, resuming the work like nothing happened.

Layla storms into the kitchen in her unicorn pyjamas, her wet hair plastered to her cheeks and a hairbrush clutched tightly in her little fist. The moment shatters the fragile bubble that had formed between Jon and me, thesubtle tension of something unspoken lingering in the air. Her arrival is like a gust of wind through an open window—abrupt but innocent.

Jon steps back slightly, his gaze shifting to the intruder. His smile softens, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of something in his eyes that I can’t read.

“Mummy, can you brush my hair? It’s all tangly,” Layla announces dramatically, brandishing the hairbrush like a weapon.

I laugh, the sound breaking the awkwardness lingering in the room. “Of course, love. Let’s go upstairs.”

But Layla isn’t done. She turns her attention to Jon, giving him an exaggerated pout. “Goodnight, Doctor Jon,” she says sweetly, as though they’ve been best friends for years.

Jon crouches slightly to meet her eye level, his voice gentle as he replies, “Goodnight, Sunshine.”

Layla’s brow furrows in curiosity, and she tilts her head. “Why do you call me Sunshine?”

His answer is quiet but sincere, the kind of response that catches me off guard. “Because you and your mum brought a little sunshine into my life.”

I swallow hard, warmth blooming in my chest. Layla beams at him, completely unaware of the weight behind his words. “That’s nice,” she says simply, before slipping her hand into mine. “Let’s go, Mummy.”

I give Jon a look over my shoulder, something between gratitude and disbelief. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a softness that wasn’t there before. Something I don’t quite know what to do with.

As we settle into her room, I sit on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair in slow, gentle strokes. Layla chatters onabout the pasta-making, recounting every moment with wide-eyed enthusiasm. But then after I finish drying her hair, she drops the bombshell.

“Doctor Jon should stay forever,” she says dreamily. “He’s so nice, and he’s funny, and he cooks better than you.”

I let out a soft laugh, though her words make my chest tighten. “He’s a very nice man,” I agree, keeping my tone light. “But you know he’s only here for a little while. He’s a guest.”

Layla’s face falls slightly, her little nose scrunching. “But why can’t he stay? We have lots of room.”

“Because he has his own home to go back to,” I explain, carefully weaving the braid. “He’s not like Auntie Nancy who lives nearby. He’s just visiting.”

Layla frowns, her hands clutching her quilt. “But what if he doesn’t want to go home?”

I pause, searching for the right words. “Sometimes grown-ups have things they need to do, even if they like where they are. Doctor Jon has a life in London, and we have our life here. That’s just how it is.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her lips pursed in thought. Then she sighs heavily, as if resigning herself to a great injustice. “Okay. But can he still have dinner with us every night until he leaves?”

I smile, brushing a kiss against her temple. “We’ll see, sweetheart. Now, into bed.”

Layla wriggles under the covers, her small body curling up as I tuck her in. “Goodnight, Mummy.”

“Goodnight, my love,” I whisper, turning off the light and leaving the door ajar just enough to let the hallway glow spill in.

As I walk back downstairs, Layla’s words linger in my mind. She’s taken to Jon so quickly, and I can’t deny the warmth he’s brought into the house. But it’s a delicate line to walk—letting her enjoy his presence without letting her grow too attached. After all, Jon Peterson isn’t staying forever.

And neither, I remind myself, should I want him to.

When I return to the kitchen, Jon’s still there, the room tidied up and quieter now. He’s sitting at the table, two steaming mugs of tea and two generous slices of coffee cake set out neatly. I pause in the doorway, the scene unexpected but oddly comforting.

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