Page 30 of ICED
I smile, for real this time as I type out my address and send it to him.
And for the first time since the alarm went off, I let myself believe the worst might not come back.
That maybe, this time, the good thing will stay.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JACKO
Idon’t knock right away.
I stand on Maya’s doorstep with a tin of still-warm gingerbread men in one hand and my heart doing laps in my chest. The hallway of her building smells like damp stone and laundry detergent, and I can hear the faint hum of someone vacuuming two doors down. Normal. Ordinary. Nothing like the tightness twisting in my chest right now.
Because last night, her alarm went off, and even though she texted this morning to say everything was fine,just a system fault, no big deal, I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About her. About the fear I heard between the lines of her message. About how she’s always pretending she’s fine, even when she’s not.
So, I baked.
It’s what I do when I’m useless in every other way. Mix flour and butter, roll dough until it calms the noise. And then I show up like an idiot with a tin full of comfort and zero game plan.
I lift my hand and knock.
There’s a pause. The sound of small feet on the floor. A muffled voice, and then the sound of the chain being undone.
When the door opens, Maya’s there in leggings and an oversized jumper, hair scraped into a messy bun, eyes cautious.
She tilts her head. “Is that the gingerbread?”
I lift the tin slightly. “Didn’t know how else to say I was thinking about you. This seemed safer than flowers.”
Something in her face softens. Just a flicker, but I see it.
“Come in,” she says, stepping back.
I toe off my shoes at the door automatically and follow her into the flat. It smells like fabric softener, and something else I can’t name but know is justher. The radiator ticks faintly, and Lila’s toys are lined up in colour-coded perfection along the edge of the sofa.
“Where’s the kiddo?” I ask, voice quiet.
“Bed,” she replies, crossing into the kitchen. “They had a puppet show this morning. She nearly exploded with excitement and then she crashed when we got home.”
I follow her, feeling bigger than usual in this delicate space. She sets the tin down on the counter and flips the lid.
There’s a second of silence. Then she picks one up and bites its head off.
“You make angry gingerbread men?” she asks, chewing.
“I might’ve projected some feelings onto them,” I admit, leaning against the counter. “That one’s called Brian. He was the oven’s first casualty.”
Her lips twitch. “RIP, Brian.”
I let the silence stretch a beat longer, watching her. There’s something tight in her posture today, even tighter than usual. Her shoulders are pulled up, her spine too straight. She’s holding herself together like if she breathes too deep, she might shatter.
“How are you?” I ask, carefully.
She keeps her eyes on the biscuit tin. “Fine.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I am,” she insists, biting the leg off another gingerbread man. “It was just a false alarm. Happens sometimes. The system glitched.”
