Chapter Four- Quiet Things

Chapter Four — Quiet Things

Jack didn’t push.

After that morning in the hallway, he didn’t bring it up again. No awkward follow-ups. No "are you okay?" texts. No hovering concern. Just the occasional hello, a polite nod if they passed each other by the mailboxes, a small wave if he saw her walking Lila out to the car. Always just enough to say, I see you—but never more than she was ready for.

Elena didn’t know what to make of him.

Most men she’d known were loud, overbearing, or fake-sweet. The kind who raised their voices when they were "just joking." The kind who offered compliments with expectations attached. Jack was… different. Simple. Steady. Like a quiet song that didn’t demand attention but stayed with you long after it stopped playing.

A few days later, there was a package on her doorstep. No knock. No text. Just a little brown bag resting neatly against the frame, like it belonged there.

Inside: two small cartons of strawberry milk, a fresh box of crayons, and a pack of watercolor paper.

It wasn’t addressed to her.

It wasn’t meant for her.

It was for Lila.

And her daughter noticed.

When they returned from the grocery store that afternoon—Elena balancing bags, Lila skipping ahead—Jack just happened to be locking his door.

Lila squealed, dropping her bag of cheese puffs. “That’s the milk guy!”

Jack turned, grinning. “Guilty.”

“You gave me crayons too,” she said, clutching Elena’s hand but grinning so wide her dimples nearly swallowed her cheeks.

“I did,” Jack replied. “You’re a pretty great artist. I figured you might need some new tools.”

Lila nodded seriously, like this was a business transaction. “I draw a lot. Mommy says art is how we show our hearts.”

Jack’s smile softened. “That’s a pretty wise mom you’ve got.”

Elena froze. Compliments were always dangerous. But there was no flirtation in his voice. Just warmth. Steady and kind.

Lila’s eyes sparkled. “Wanna see?”

Jack glanced at Elena, not moving an inch closer. Not answering the child’s question until he got the mother’s permission.

It caught Elena off guard—the respect. The way he waited on her answer, not Lila’s. Like he understood boundaries without needing them explained.

She nodded once, unsure why she said yes, but knowing in her gut that it was okay.

Back inside their apartment, Lila led the way, dragging Jack by the hand with all the confidence of a tiny curator. She presented her “gallery” across the living room floor—paper after paper of rainbow houses, dogs that looked like clouds, and smiling stick people with pink hair.

Jack crouched beside her, not just looking, but studying.

“What’s this one?” he asked, pointing to a drawing with a giant heart and a floating cat.

“That’s you,” Lila explained seriously. “And me. And Mommy. We’re having pancakes in the sky.”

“Well,” Jack said, with a theatrical nod, “that is clearly the best breakfast scenario ever.”

From the kitchen, Elena watched, pretending to tidy but really just… absorbing. She kept waiting for the moment he’d fake a compliment or glance at his phone or cut Lila off mid-sentence like others had.

He didn’t.

He asked questions. Real ones. Told Lila her lines were strong. That her trees looked like they belonged in a fairy tale. That her sun had so much warmth it could melt sadness.

He wasn’t humoring her—he meant it.

Elena brought over a small tray of juice and crackers, embarrassed it was all she had on hand. Jack accepted them like it was a feast.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the paper cup of apple juice with both hands like it was a glass of champagne. “Best snack I’ve had all week.”

Later that night, after Lila had fallen asleep with crayon smudges on her cheek and a picture clutched in her hand labeled “Me and Jack and Mommy”, Elena sat on the couch, holding that paper in her lap.

It wasn’t the drawing that broke her.

It was the way Lila had drawn Jack’s smile—simple and safe.

And the way she had drawn Elena’s eyes—not scared. Just soft.

Jack had only stayed twenty minutes. But in those twenty minutes, something inside Elena shifted. A needle on a compass moving slightly. A breath held for years, let out just enough to remember what exhale felt like.

Not trust. Not yet.

But maybe… the start of it.