Page 132 of ICED
Owen lets her pour the mix. Lets her choose how many chips go in each cup. Doesn’t blink when she accidentally cracks an eggshell straight into the bowl.
“Oops!” she says.
“No worries,” Owen replies, calmly fishing it out. “Eggshells add crunch.”
She giggles, and the sound breaks me a little bit. In the best way.
She calls this home now.
I think maybe I do too.
In the afternoon, Owen heads to the gym for a training session with the guys. He kisses Lila on the top of the head and squeezes my hand before he leaves, “I’ll be two hours, max. Call me if you need me.” I reach up on tiptoes and kiss him gently, promising I’ll let him know if I’m not okay. I realise I don’t panic when the door shuts behind him. I just roll up my sleeves and start baking.
I find myself in his kitchen,ourkitchen, measuring out flour and sugar, hunting for vanilla in the cupboard I now instinctively reach for. I don’t even think about it. I just bake.
Lila helps, of course. She insists on cracking the eggs and somehow gets more yolk on the counter than in the bowl. I pretend to be outraged, and she cackles with glee.
“What are we making, Mummy?”
“Almond biscuits.”
“For Bear?”
“For all of us.”
She grins and starts singing something about almonds having legs. I don’t correct her. I let her stand on the stool beside me, covered in flour, safe and happy andhome.
Owen gets back just as I’m sliding the tray out of the oven. His hoodie is damp at the collar, hair pushed back with sweat, and he looks at the kitchen like he’s walked into a dream.
“You baked,” he says, voice a little hoarse.
I shrug. “You have a functioning mixer. It would’ve been rude not to.”
He smiles, slow and deep, and takes a biscuit when I nod permission. He breaks it in half and gives the bigger piece to Lila, who beams up at him like he’s Santa and the Tooth Fairy rolled into one.
“Best biscuits in the world,” he declares after one bite.
“Obviously,” I say, trying to sound flippant, but my chest goes warm again.
He steps closer, brushing a crumb from my cheek with his thumb. His eyes linger on mine. “You look lighter.”
“I feel lighter.”
His gaze softens. “Good.”
And it is. It really, really is.
Later, when Lila’s in the bath and Owen’s scrolling on his phone beside me on the couch, I glance down at my hands. They’re still dusted with flour. My hair’s a mess. I’m wearing pyjama bottoms and his sweatshirt.
I don’t look like someone with a handle on anything.
But I feel grounded. Whole. Like all the parts of me, the mother, the baker, the woman who once ran from everything, have finally stopped fighting.
I lean my head on Owen’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. He just lifts his arm and wraps it around me.
And I let him.
Because maybe I’m done running, too.
