Forgiveness, Trust & Forever

Hero

"I had her."
Emily said it like a confession.
Like a prayer.
Like proof.
I stood in the hallway with blood on my mouth, pain tearing through my ribs, police moving around us, Hayden shouting somewhere below, and my daughter crying between us.
But all I heard was Emily.
"I had her."
Her voice broke on the second time, and something inside me went with it.
I wanted to tell her I knew.
I wanted to tell her I had heard every word through the cracked door. Every shaking refusal. Every moment she held the line between Hayden and Eleanora with nothing but a broken lock, an old cot, and the kind of courage she had never believed she owned.
But if I said too much, she would retreat.
So I touched my forehead to hers, careful not to crush Eleanora between us, and said the only thing that mattered.
"Yes. You did."
Emily closed her eyes.
A tear slipped down her cheek and landed on Eleanora's hair.
Our daughter had calmed to hiccuping little sobs, one tiny fist twisted into Emily's borrowed jumper, the other gripping what was left of my collar. She was still frightened. Still red-faced. Still exhausted by a day that should never have touched her.
But she was safe.
In Emily's arms.
Against my chest.
Between us.
For one impossible second, the world narrowed to that.
Then a police officer cleared his throat.
"Mr Tiffin?"
Reality came back.
Hard.
The hallway. The cracked nursery door. The cot shoved at an angle against the wall. The smell of petrol faint but unmistakable drifting up from downstairs. My split lip. Emily trembling. Eleanora in the middle of it all.
I lifted my head but didn't move away from them completely.
"Yes."
The officer's gaze moved to Eleanora, then softened.
"We need to evacuate the upper floor until the garage has been checked. There's a confirmed accelerant smell downstairs. Fire service is on the way."
Emily stiffened.
"My studio?"
"We need everyone out of the building for now."
"No." Her voice was immediate. "No, we can't go outside. They're at the gates."
"We'll escort you."
"They'll photograph her."
The officer paused.
Emily held Eleanora tighter.
I saw the fear come back, but it was different now. Not the old panic that turned inward and hollowed her out. This one had teeth.
The officer looked at me.
I shook my head. "No front exit."
"There's a garage exit at the rear," Emily said quickly, still staring at the officer. "Private driveway, gates, access to the side lane."
"We've got officers at the gates. We can clear a route to a police vehicle."
"No cameras," Emily said.
The officer's brows lifted slightly.
Her voice shook, but she didn't back down.
"No photographs of her. No names. No faces. Nothing."
I looked at her.
She didn't look at me.
She looked at the officer like she was ready to fight the entire Metropolitan Police if they gave her the wrong answer.
The officer nodded once. "We'll do everything we can."
"Not good enough," she said.
"Emily," I murmured.
Her head snapped to me. "Don't."
I shut my mouth.
Fair.
She had earned this fight.
Another officer appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Garage is clear of persons. Suspect is secured outside. Fire service two minutes out. There's petrol spilled around the driver's side of the vehicle but no ignition source found."
Emily's face went white.
"My car."
The first officer softened. "It's just a car."
Wrong thing to say.
I saw it before he did.
Emily's eyes flashed.
"No," she said, voice low. "It is not just a car. It is my garage. My studio. My home. My daughter's nursery. It is every line he crossed before deciding the next one was fire."
The officer went still.
So did I.
My daughter's nursery.
She said it without flinching.
Without correcting herself.
Without looking like the words had ripped her open.
My daughter.
Her nursery.
Eleanora made a tiny, tired sound, her cheek rubbing against Emily's chest.
Emily looked down instantly.
Every hard edge of her face shifted.
Not gone.
Just turned towards the smaller thing in her arms.
"I need a coat for her," she said.
I blinked.
"What?"
"For Eleanora. If we have to go outside, she needs a coat."
It was so ordinary.
So obvious.
So motherly in the simplest possible way that for a second I couldn't speak.
Emily glanced up and saw my face.
Her expression sharpened. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Hero."
"She has one in the bag."
"Then get it."
I moved.
Quickly.
Because if I stood there looking at her like she had just performed a miracle, she would probably throw something at me.
The changing bag was in my bedroom. No, Emily's bedroom. I needed to stop thinking like that. The flat was hers, even if bits of me still haunted every room.
I found Eleanora's little padded coat folded beside spare nappies. Pink. Mum had packed it. Of course she had. There was also a hat, socks, and one of those tiny blankets she kept insisting were superior because of some magical breathable fabric I had never understood but never questioned.
When I came back, Emily had shifted Eleanora onto her hip.
Awkwardly.
But securely.
Our daughter's head rested against her shoulder, thumb drifting near her mouth.
Emily looked exhausted.
She also looked furious at anyone who might notice she was doing well.
I held the coat out.
"Do you want me to-"
"I can do it."
I nodded and handed it over.
She tried.
For about seven seconds.
Eleanora, overtired and unimpressed, immediately pulled one arm back and whined.
Emily froze.
I stepped closer but didn't touch.
"Arm first," I said softly.
"I know arms go in sleeves, thank you."
Despite everything, my mouth twitched.
"She tucks them under when she's tired. You have to sort of guide it through."
Emily gave me a look that said she hated every part of this instruction and every part of needing it.
But she listened.
She guided one tiny arm through.
Then the other.
The coat went on.
Badly buttoned.
One side uneven.
Completely fine.
Eleanora made a soft grumble and tucked her face back into Emily.
"There," Emily whispered, more to herself than anyone. "Done."
"Yes," I said. "Done."
She didn't look at me.
But colour touched her cheeks.
The officer cleared his throat again.
"We need to move."
I grabbed the changing bag, the blanket, my phone, and the burner phone from the nursery shelf. The photographs stayed where they were, face down, a crime scene inside a room that should have been sacred.
Emily noticed me looking.
"We're coming back," she said.
I looked at her.
Her jaw tightened.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Stop doing nothing at me."
"We're coming back," I repeated.
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
She had said it without thinking.
Not, you can collect her things later.
Not, take the baby somewhere else.
We.
Coming back.
The officer led us down the stairs.
Emily stayed close behind me, Eleanora held against her chest, one hand cupping the back of her head. I could feel them there with every step. My body wanted to turn around every two seconds to check. To make sure Hayden hadn't somehow escaped. To make sure Emily hadn't vanished. To make sure Eleanora was still breathing.
But I kept moving because Emily was moving.
And because every time I slowed, she hissed, "Walk."
Halfway down, we passed the studio door.
It stood open.
The mirrors reflected us as we moved past.
Me, bruised and bleeding.
Emily, barefoot in last night's dress beneath my mother's jumper, holding Eleanora like she was afraid and determined in equal measure.
Our daughter, bundled badly in her little coat, face hidden against Emily's shoulder.
If the world wanted a picture of us, there it was.
Not polished.
Not staged.
Not the fantasy my director had spent months trying to sell.
Something messier.
Something truer.
A family in the middle of a disaster.
At the bottom of the stairs, the smell of petrol grew stronger.
Emily stopped dead.
I turned.
Her eyes had gone glassy.
"What?" I asked.
She looked through the open internal door into the garage.
Her car door still hung open.
The cardboard box still sat on the bonnet.
Police tape had already appeared around the space. Two officers stood near the entrance, and somewhere beyond the gates, blue lights flashed across the wet concrete.
"My shoes are in there," she whispered.
I frowned.
"What?"
"My dance shoes." Her voice sounded distant. "In the boot. The old ones. From the first show I choreographed after..." She stopped.
After me.
After Eleanora.
After court.
After the life she thought was over.
I looked at the car, then at her.
"We'll get them."
She laughed once, hollow. "Hero, there's petrol on my car and police everywhere."
"Then when they say it's safe, we'll get them."
Her eyes came to mine.
I meant it.
I don't know why that mattered so much. Maybe because her whole life downstairs was being treated like evidence, and I needed her to know it was still hers.
Her studio.
Her car.
Her shoes.
Her survival.
"We need to keep moving," the officer said gently.
Emily nodded.
But she looked one last time at the garage before following.
We went out through the side entrance into the private driveway.
The gates were closed, police positioned in front of them, backs turned to us, blocking every possible view from the road. Beyond the black metal bars, I saw cameras lift anyway. Phones. Flashes. Men and women calling my name, Emily's name, questions breaking against the police line.
"Hero, is that the baby?"
"Emily, did Hayden attack you?"
"Is it true Jo leaked the story?"
"Hero, one comment!"
Emily curled around Eleanora instantly.
I stepped beside her, shielding them with my body.
This time, she didn't tell me not to.
The officer guided us into the back of a waiting police vehicle inside the driveway. Not out on the street. Not through the gates. Thank God.
I climbed in first, then helped Emily.
She hesitated for half a second before letting me touch her elbow.
Progress.
Tiny, ridiculous progress.
The door shut behind us.
The outside noise dulled.
Eleanora stirred.
Her face scrunched.
Emily looked down in immediate panic.
"No, no, please don't cry," she whispered. "Please, Nora."
Nora.
The nickname hit me harder than Hayden's fist.
Emily didn't seem to notice she had said it.
Or maybe she did, because her mouth closed abruptly and her eyes flicked to mine.
I said nothing.
My face must have said everything.
"Don't," she warned.
I looked out the window.
Cowardly, maybe.
But necessary.
Eleanora settled again, her little hand resting against Emily's chest.
The officer in the front seat turned slightly.
"We're only moving you to a temporary safe point while fire service checks the garage. There's a police van blocking the view at the gates. Once the building is cleared, you may be able to return, depending on what they find."
"Depending?" Emily asked sharply.
"If there's no ongoing fire risk and the scene can be secured."
Emily pressed her lips together.
I knew what she was thinking.
She didn't want to leave.
Not now.
Not after opening the nursery.
Not after finding the phone and photos.
Not after Hayden had tried to force his way to her.
Leaving would feel too much like running.
I reached across the small gap between us and placed my hand palm-up on the seat.
Not touching her.
Just there.
She stared at it.
For a long second, I thought she would ignore it.
Then she shifted Eleanora slightly and placed her fingers in mine.
Cold.
Shaking.
There.
I closed my hand around hers.
Outside, the officer spoke into his radio.
Inside, Emily looked down at our joined hands and whispered, "I hate today."
Despite everything, a laugh slipped out of me.
It hurt my split lip.
I winced.
Emily's head snapped up.
"You're bleeding."
"I noticed."
"Don't be sarcastic while bleeding."
"I don't have many skills left."
Her eyes moved over my face properly for the first time since the hallway.
Her expression changed.
Anger vanished.
Fear returned, softer this time.
"You look awful."
"Thanks."
"I mean it."
"So did I."
Her hand tightened around mine.
"He hurt you."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"No," I admitted. "But I will be."
Her eyes dropped to my lip.
The air shifted.
Not desire.
Not exactly.
Something more fragile.
The urge to touch a wound because it belonged to someone you loved.
She lifted her free hand slightly.
Then stopped.
Eleanora moved between us.
Emily looked down.
Her hand lowered.
I understood.
Maybe too well.
An officer opened the front door, breaking the moment.
"We've got the suspect secured. He's being arrested for assault, trespass, and threats to damage property. There may be further charges depending on the petrol and the items left in the garage."
Emily closed her eyes.
Suspect.
Hayden reduced to a word.
A legal category.
Like I had been actor.
Like she had been instability factor.
Like Eleanora had been child angle.
I was beginning to hate how easily people became something smaller when others wanted control over the story.
"Is he saying anything?" I asked.
The officer hesitated.
"He's claiming he came to help Miss Dean."
Emily laughed.
No humour.
Just disbelief.
"He broke into my garage to help me?"
"He says someone told him you were unsafe with Mr Tiffin."
I went very still.
Emily did too.
"Someone?" I asked.
The officer checked his notes.
"He's refusing to give a name at present."
Ava.
Jo.
My director.
The assistant.
The whole rotten web tightened again.
Emily's fingers dug into mine.
"He wouldn't have come here because of Jo," she said quietly.
I looked at her.
She didn't look back.
"He doesn't know her. Not really. But Ava..." Her jaw tightened. "Ava maybe?"
My stomach turned.
Ava hadn't planted the phone herself.
She hadn't sent Jo to do this.
She had pushed Hayden at the door and watched what happened.
Classic Ava.
Never the hand holding the match.
Always the one telling someone else where the petrol was.
The officer's radio crackled.
"Fire service says no active ignition source. Petrol spill contained. Building safe for re-entry to upper levels, but garage remains sealed."
Emily breathed out shakily.
"We can go back?"
"For now, yes. Officers will remain at the gates."
Her whole body sagged slightly with relief.
Mine too.
Because I had not realised until that second how badly I needed us back behind those locked doors. Not because they were safe in any permanent way. Nothing felt permanent anymore. But because upstairs, a nursery was open.
And I was not ready to leave that room.
The officer walked us back inside through the side entrance.
Police moved around the garage, photographing the box, the car, the floor. I tried to keep Emily from looking, but she looked anyway.
Of course she did.
When we passed the box, her steps slowed.
FOR THE NURSERY.
Her face hardened.
"Can I see what's inside?"
"No," I said immediately.
The officer said the same thing at the same time.
Emily glared at both of us.
"Don't both of you tell me no."
The officer looked uncomfortable.
I tightened my grip on the changing bag.
"It's evidence."
"It's my life."
"It might be something designed to hurt you," I said.
Her eyes flashed. "Everything today is designed to hurt me."
"And I'm trying to stop one thing from succeeding."
She stared at me.
Then Eleanora stirred and made a soft, grumbly little sound against her chest.
Emily's face changed instantly.
Not softer exactly.
Redirected.
She looked down, adjusted the coat collar away from Eleanora's cheek, and whispered, "Okay, I know. We're going upstairs."
We.
Again.
I would never survive this if she kept saying that.
We climbed back through the studio and up to the flat.
The second the door closed behind us, the silence swallowed the building.
Not complete silence.
There were police downstairs. Fire service in the garage. The press beyond the gates. The world outside locked down and watching.
But inside the flat, it was just us.
Emily carried Eleanora straight to the bedroom.
I followed with the bag.
"She needs sleep," Emily said.
"So do you."
She ignored that.
"I'm putting her back in the travel cot."
"Okay."
"You need to clean your face."
"I will."
"Now."
I raised a brow.
She flushed.
"I mean, because blood is unhygienic."
"Of course."
"And because you look terrible."
"You said."
"And because if your mother video calls and sees you like that, she'll blame me."
I laughed, then winced again.
Emily looked both satisfied and concerned.
"Bathroom. Now."
"Yes, ma'am."
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she disappeared into the bedroom with Eleanora.
I went to the bathroom.
The mirror was unkind.
Split lip. Bruising along my jaw. Scrape near my cheekbone. Shoulder already stiff. Ribs aching every time I breathed too deeply.
Hayden had got a few good hits in.
So had I.
I wasn't proud of it.
I also wasn't sorry.
I cleaned my face with a cloth, hissing when it touched my lip.
Through the wall, I heard Emily murmuring to Eleanora.
Not clear words.
Just sound.
Low.
Awkward.
Trying.
My hand stilled against the sink.
I should not listen.
I listened anyway.
"There we go," Emily whispered. "I know. I know you're tired. I would be too if everyone around me was this dramatic."
A tiny sound from Eleanora.
Emily paused.
Then, quieter, "Your dad is the worst of them."
I almost smiled.
Then she said, so soft I barely caught it, "But he came back."
My chest locked.
I stared at my reflection.
He came back.
Not I came back.
Not we came back.
He.
Me.
The thing she had needed once and hadn't got.
The thing I had spent years insisting I would have done if I had known.
Maybe none of that mattered anymore.
Maybe all that mattered was that I was here now.
Or maybe that was too easy.
I rinsed the cloth and pressed it to my mouth again.
A few minutes later, I stepped out.
Emily was in the bedroom, leaning over the travel cot. Eleanora was asleep again, one hand on the rabbit, coat removed and folded nearby.
Emily stood perfectly still, like she didn't want to disturb the air.
I leaned against the doorway.
"You got her down."
She startled, then scowled.
"Stop sneaking."
"I live here now. Temporarily."
Her expression shifted at the word live.
So did mine.
She looked back at the cot.
"She was too tired to fight me."
"That's still a win."
"I'm not calling it that."
"Fine. Strategic success."
Her mouth twitched.
Then her eyes moved to my face.
Concern sharpened.
"You didn't clean that properly."
"I did."
"You dabbed it like a frightened prince."
"I was in Harry Potter, not royalty."
"I know what I said."
She walked past me to the bathroom and came back with the cloth, antiseptic, and the sort of determined expression that usually preceded either an argument or a kiss.
My body, traitorous bastard that it was, reacted to both possibilities.
"Sit," she ordered.
"I'm fine."
"Sit or bleed on my floor and I'll make you lick it clean."
I sat on the edge of the bed.
She stood between my knees before either of us realised what that meant.
The air changed immediately.
Emily noticed.
Her hand tightened around the cloth.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You breathed."
"I'll stop."
"Good."
She dabbed the cloth against my lip.
I hissed.
"Baby."
"Violent."
"You were punched."
"By your ex-boyfriend."
"Don't make me regret helping you."
"I could never."
Her hand stilled.
Our eyes met.
Too close.
Too much.
The television murmured in the living room, still replaying lockdown instructions. Outside, faintly, a police radio crackled. Eleanora slept two feet away.
And Emily stood between my knees, touching my mouth.
Every nerve in my body remembered last night.
Her hands in my hair.
My name on her lips.
The way she said it like a warning and a plea.
Her eyes dropped to my mouth.
I stopped breathing.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
"This is a bad idea," she whispered.
"I know."
"I'm cleaning blood off your face."
"I know."
"Our daughter is asleep beside us."
"I know that too."
Her hand trembled.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"I'm trying."
"No, you're not."
"No," I admitted. "I'm not."
Her breath caught.
For one second, she leaned closer.
Not much.
Enough.
Then Eleanora sighed in her sleep.
Emily stepped back like the sound had burned her.
The cloth dropped from her hand onto the bed.
"I can't," she whispered.
I nodded, forcing my hands to stay on my knees.
"Okay."
Her eyes filled. "Don't say okay like that."
"Like what?"
"Like it doesn't hurt."
I swallowed.
"It does."
She closed her eyes.
"I don't know where to put anything today."
"What do you mean?"
"My fear. My guilt. You. Her. What happened last night. What happened downstairs. That room." Her voice cracked. "I don't know where any of it goes."
I looked towards Eleanora.
Then back at Emily.
"Then don't put it anywhere tonight."
She gave a broken little laugh.
"That isn't how feelings work."
"It's how lockdown works. Everything stays where it is."
The laugh came again, less broken this time.
I smiled, then winced because of my lip.
Emily shook her head.
"You're ridiculous."
"You used to like that."
"I used to have questionable judgement."
"And now?"
She looked at me.
The answer sat there.
Between us.
On her tongue.
In her eyes.
Then she swallowed it.
"Now I have a baby asleep in my room and petrol in my garage."
"Right."
"So maybe romance can wait."
I went still.
She realised what she'd said at the same time I did.
Romance.
Not mistake.
Not sex.
Not last night.
Romance.
Her face went bright red.
"That is not what I meant."
"It's exactly what you meant."
"No."
"Yes."
"Hero."
I smiled carefully, even though it hurt.
"I'll let it wait."
She stared at me.
Something softened.
A knock sounded downstairs.
Both of us froze.
Then a police officer called up, "Mr Tiffin? Miss Dean? We need a statement when you're ready."
Reality returned.
Emily stepped back fully this time.
"I'll go."
I stood. "You don't have to."
"It's my building. My ex-boyfriend. My garage." She looked at Eleanora, then at me. "Stay with her."
The request landed hard.
She was asking me to stay with our daughter while she faced something.
Trusting me with the thing that mattered most because she knew I would not fail her there.
I nodded.
"Okay."
She started for the door.
"Emily."
She stopped but didn't turn.
"You were right."
"About what?"
"Earlier. You had her."
Her shoulders trembled.
For a second, I thought she might say something sharp.
Instead, she whispered, "I know."
Then she walked downstairs.
I stayed beside the travel cot.
Eleanora slept, mouth soft, fingers curled into her rabbit.
I crouched beside her and touched the back of her tiny hand.
"Your mum is terrifying," I whispered.
She slept on.
"She gets that from me."
A soft sound came from downstairs.
Emily's voice.
Steady.
Answering questions.
Not running.
I looked towards the hallway.
The nursery door was still open.
From where I crouched, I could see the edge of the green wall.
The clouds and stars mobile.
My jacket on the chair.
A room that had waited for us through every wrong turn.
I looked back at Eleanora.
"I think we might be staying," I whispered.
Outside, the country locked its doors.
Inside, for the first time, one of ours stayed open.