Page 55 of ICED
And somehow that undoes me more than anything else.
He could be anywhere. Doing anything. And he’s here. Catching my daughter before she falls. Teaching her it’s safe to try again.
God help me, I think she believes him.
And worse still, I think I do, too.
By the time we get her skates off and wrestle her back into her boots, she’s full of stories and syrupy pride. She demands we make a sign for her wall that saysLILA SKATED TODAYin pink glitter. I promise we’ll do it.
Owen offers to drive us back to the flat. I almost say no automatically. Old reflexes. It’s not far, and I’m used to walking, used to doing everything myself. But the sun’s dropping fast and Lila’s getting that glazed look she gets before she crashes into nap mode.
“Sure,” I say, before I can overthink it. “Thanks.”
He unlocks his truck and opens the back door.
I freeze.
There’s a car seat.
Pink. Padded. Safety checked. Installed.
My heart stutters.
“You…” I start, then stop. My voice cracks weirdly. “You got a car seat?”
Owen rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just thought it might be useful. For today. Or other days, if you ever…” He shrugs, sheepish. “I looked up the safest ones. Made sure it had side impact stuff. Didn’t want her riding without one.”
I stare at him. At the seat. At Lila, who has already climbed in like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
She pats the harness. “It’s squishy! Can we keep it, Mummy?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, baby. I think we can.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t say anything else. Just gently checks the straps, adjusts the headrest with big careful hands.
It’s nothing and everything all at once.
It’s more than anyone’s ever done for us without wanting something in return.
And it makes something ache deep in my chest.
Once Owen’s made sure that Lila is strapped in safely, he carefully closes her door and then opens the passenger door and waits for me to climb in. No one has ever opened a door for me before today. Flustered, I pull the seat belt across my chest and plug it in with a brief smile in his direction. Once he’s satisfied I’m safe, he closes the door and jogs around the front of his truck.
We’re halfway back when Lila starts humming in the back seat. It’s not a song I recognise, just something soft and tuneless. Her fingers curl around the stuffed unicorn she brought with her, now wearing a makeshift skating ribbon tied around her neck.
Owen glances at me as we hit a red light. “She did great today.”
I nod. “She did.”
“She’s brave. Like you.”
That makes me snort softly. “I’m not brave.”
He doesn’t argue. Just says, “You stayed.”
I look at him.
“You stayed,” he says again, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Even when it was hard. You protected her. You kept going. That’s what brave is.”
