off-season, still warm part four
The caravan park is quiet in the off-season.
The sea is cold.
Tom Grant is twenty and trying not to want too much.
Elvi Andersen arrives with a baby, a past she won’t talk about, and a sadness that doesn’t always have words.
This is a story about small kindnesses: making tea, holding someone else’s child, learning how to stay without being asked. About two people who don’t fix each other—but make the weight easier to carry.
Soft love. Slow healing. Found family by the sea.
Tom sleeps in his own trailer that night.
The bed feels bigger than it did yesterday. Colder, somehow. He wakes once when the wind rattles the thin walls, rolls over, and goes back to sleep thinking about Rory’s laugh and the way Elvi had looked at the sea like she’d misplaced something out there.
His phone rings far too early.
Tom groans, fumbles for it, and squints at the screen.
“Morning, Mum,” he mumbles when he answers, voice thick with sleep.
“Oh, so you do know how to answer the phone,” his mum laughs. “If I hadn’t spoken to Shirley, I’d have started to think you were dead.”
“Sorry,” Tom says, rubbing his eyes. “Been busy.”
“I know,” she says lightly. “Shirley told me about your new neighbour.”
“Mum—” Tom starts, already bracing himself.
“I think it’s really sweet,” she cuts in, her tone softer now. “What you’re doing, I mean. I can’t imagine how hard it must be, being left like that. Who does that to someone?”
“I know,” Tom mutters. “That lad’s a proper wanker. I’m just… doing the right thing.”
“And Shirley says she’s a real looker,” his mum adds, teasing.
“Muuuum,” Tom groans, pulling the phone away from his ear for a second.
“What?” she laughs. “You’ve been miserable since Ruth. I’m just saying—it’s nice you’re making friends that aren’t Kai and Adam.”
“Yeah,” Tom says, unable to stop the smile creeping into his voice. “She’s really nice.”
There’s a pause on the line.
“Do you fancy her?” his mum asks, carefully.
“Yeah,” Tom admits quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“If this is you just being a lad looking for a shag,” she says firmly, “I will drag you home by the ear, Thomas.”
“Oh my god, Mum,” Tom groans. “Please never talk about me shagging ever again.”
She laughs. “You’re an adult now. I know what lads in their twenties are like.” Then more serious: “She has a baby. Just think before you do something you can’t take back.”
“It’s not like that,” Tom says, irritation creeping in. “I proper fancy her.”
“Alright,” his mum says, sensing it. “You can tell me more when you come home for Christmas.”
He’d forgotten. Entirely.
“Yeah,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “Yeah, I will.”
“You’re driving up next week, right?”
“Yeah,” Tom replies. “Harry’s coming down and we’re driving together.”
“Good,” his mum says. “Your brother could learn something from you.” Then, casually, “Did he tell you about the new bird he’s seeing?”
“She’s got those lips all the girls on Love Island have,” his mum says, laughing. “Makes them all look like ducks.”
“Lip filler,” Tom supplies.
“Yes, that,” she says. “Apparently she’s coming for Christmas.”
“Bloody hell,” Tom mutters. “There should be a rule. Must’ve been dating at least a year before bringing them home for Christmas.”
His mum laughs loudly. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”
They talk a bit longer—about nothing important. Her work. Someone she doesn’t like. The neighbour’s dog.
“Mum,” Tom says eventually.
“I’ve got work,” he says. “I need to go.”
“Oh, sorry, Thomas,” she laughs. “You know me. I could talk for hours.”
Tom lowers the phone and stares at the ceiling for a moment.
Christmas suddenly feels closer than it should. And farther away from where he wants to be.
He exhales slowly, swings his legs out of bed, and starts getting ready for the day—already thinking about whether Elvi and Rory slept alright, and what he might bring over later.
The following week goes by too fast.
Tom tells Elvi he’s going home for Christmas while she’s folding one of Rory’s tiny sleepsuits on the bed. She pauses for half a second, then nods like she already knew.
“We’re staying here,” she says. “Me and Rory.”
The words land heavier than they should. Tom feels it in his chest, sharp and sudden, like he’s missed a step. He tries not to show it.
“That’ll be quiet,” he says carefully.
After that, something shifts.
Not all at once. Just enough that Tom starts to notice it in pieces. Elvi grows quieter. Distracted. Sometimes he finds her sitting on the edge of the bed long after Rory’s fallen asleep, hands resting uselessly in her lap, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
She holds Rory more. Almost constantly. Even when Rory’s asleep, even when her arms must ache. When Tom gently suggests putting her down, Elvi says just a minute—and then another minute passes, and another.
She stops showering every day. Starts picking at her food instead of finishing it. Tom asks if she’s feeling ill. She tells him she’s fine, just tired, probably fighting off something small.
In his head, it makes sense. Christmas is coming. She’s alone. Anyone would feel strange about that.
The night before his brother comes down, Tom stays over.
They put Rory to bed together and end up on the couch with blankets pulled around their legs. Elvi lights up when Tom suggests a film, then another, then another. They watch the Cornetto trilogy straight through. For the first time all week, Elvi laughs properly—full laughs that catch her by surprise and make her clap a hand over her mouth so she doesn’t wake the baby.
Tom watches her more than the screen.
Later, in bed, he convinces her to let Rory sleep in her crib. Elvi hesitates, then nods. They lie together, trading soft kisses that never rush anywhere, breathing each other in until everything else feels far away.
“I’m going to miss you,” Elvi whispers.
“I’m going to miss you too love,” Tom says. “I’ll be back before you know it.” He smiles into her hair. “And I’ve got an idea for New Year’s.”
“Oh do tell,” she says, teasing.
“Well,” he starts, clearing his throat, “I did some research.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerous already.”
“Apparently you can still have a drink or two when you’re breastfeeding,” he continues. “So I was thinking I can buy some drinks, we’ll have a few pints—nothing much—and then set off some fireworks.”
“Oh Tommy, that sounds amazing,” she says, genuinely bright for the first time all day. Then she narrows her eyes. “Wait. You’re gonna handle the fireworks?”
Tom laughs. “Oi. You doubting me, love?”
“No,” she says, smiling. “Just don’t wanna see you lose a hand. I quite like your hands.”
“Oooooh,” Tom says, wiggling his eyebrows as he grips her waist and kisses her slow, then pulls back before it goes further. “You like my hands, huh?”
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “Kai and Adam are handling the fireworks.”
“Good,” Elvi laughs. “I don’t care much for their hands.”
She picks up his hand and presses a kiss into his knuckles. “Growing up, my mum was so scared of us getting hurt by fireworks. She’d make us stand really far away when my dad lit them.”
Tom stills for a fraction of a second. It’s the first time she’s mentioned her dad. He doesn’t comment on it.
“Really?” he says lightly.
“Yeah,” Elvi smiles. “Mum’s a bit of a worrier. Every year she’d read me articles about how someone lost an arm or fingers from fireworks.”
“Your mum seems to be a worrier about most things,” Tom laughs.
“Yeah,” Elvi says, amused. “I keep telling her it’s OCD or something, but you know—our parents’ generation and mental disorders don’t really mix.”
Tom snorts. “Yeah. My dad had a panic attack when my nan died. Kept thinking he was having a heart attack.”
Elvi turns toward him, listening.
“Doctors told him it was just a panic attack,” Tom continues, grinning now, “and he told them—quote—‘that’s for sissies,’ then stormed out still in his hospital gown. Arse fully out.”
Elvi laughs so hard she has to cover her mouth, shoulders shaking.
“When are Mads and Jens coming?” Tom asks once she’s settled again.
“Week after New Year’s,” Elvi says, then sighs.
“You not excited?” Tom asks.
“I am,” she says quickly. Then quieter: “Just not for the pity routine.”
He frowns. “Pity routine?”
“You know,” she says. “Everyone going on about how awful it is he left. How brave I am for doing this all alone. How Rory deserves a father figure.”
Tom gestures to himself. “You’ve got me.”
Elvi looks at him then—really looks at him—and something in her expression softens.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I do.”
Tom yawns and pulls her closer, breathing in the faint scent of her lavender shampoo, her body warm against his chest.
For a moment, everything feels steady.
The next morning, they stay in bed as long as they can.
The light coming through the thin curtains is pale and cold, winter sun barely doing its job. Rory is stretched out on Elvi’s chest, content as anything, lifting her head every so often like she’s checking where she is. She makes soft, pleased noises, hands fisting and unfisting in Elvi’s shirt.
Tom lies on his side, elbow propped, watching them. He doesn’t want to leave. He really doesn’t. But he does miss his parents, and part of him knows it’ll be good to see them again. Still, the thought of Elvi and Rory spending Christmas alone in the trailer sits heavy in his gut.
They eventually get up and eat breakfast straight out of a Cocoa Puffs box, sitting on the floor with their backs against the bed.
“I wonder if she’ll stay ginger when she grows up,” Tom says, nudging the box toward Elvi.
“Would be kinda fun,” Elvi laughs, twirling a tiny curl between her fingers.
Tom opens his mouth to say something else—
A knock cuts through the room.
Tom groans and drops his head back against the bed.
“My brother,” he mutters. “That means I actually have to leave.”
He pulls his sweatpants on and stands, already annoyed.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, then swings the door open and shouts, “I’m here, you dickhead.”
“That ain’t your trailer, mate,” Harry calls back, grinning. “Hate to tell you. Is that the bird-with-the-baby’s place?”
They move across to Tom’s trailer, Harry laughing the whole way.
“Jesus, Tom,” Harry says, looking around. “This place is a state.”
“Shut it,” Tom snaps, rummaging for his bag. He’s more irritated than he should be, mostly because their morning got cut short.
“Calm down,” Harry laughs. “No need to get testy.” He glances toward Elvi’s trailer. “So… she fit?”
Tom stops and looks at him.
“The bird,” Harry says, nodding his head. “Mum told me you fancy some woman with a baby.”
“Can’t believe she told you,” Tom mutters.
“So,” Harry grins. “Productive night?”
“It’s not like that,” Tom says sharply. “Not yet.”
Harry smirks. “Playing the long game, are we?”
Tom doesn’t answer. He just shoves him.
“Alright, alright,” Harry laughs, grabbing Tom’s duffel. “Run along and say goodbye. Jane’s waiting.”
Elvi opens the door before he can knock, Rory balanced on her hip. Tom’s chest tightens at the sight of them. He pulls Elvi into a long hug, pressing his face into her hair trying to memorise the smell knowing how much he will miss it.
“Drive safe,” Elvi whispers when he pulls back.
“I will,” Tom says. He ruffles Rory’s hair, and she looks up at him with wide eyes.
From behind them, Harry shouts, “TODAY, MATE.”
“Sorry about him,” Tom says sheepishly. “I’ll be back next week. I’ll text every day.”
“Deal,” Elvi says, holding out her pinky.
Tom hooks his finger with hers and grins. “Deal.”
He lifts her hand and kisses the tip of her pinky before stepping back.
He waves to Rory—who immediately reaches for him—and then turns and jogs toward Harry, shoving him lightly when he catches that smug look.
At the car, Tom spots Jane in the front seat, phone glued to her hand, gum working loudly in her mouth.
“Tom, this is Jane,” Harry says. “Jane, this is Tom.”
“Hey,” Jane says flatly, not looking up.
“Alright,” Tom replies, equally flat.
He puts his headphones in and lets the music drown out the next three hours. Jane talks. Harry responds. Tom doesn’t really hear any of it.
When they pull into his parents’ driveway, Tom is out of the car before the engine’s even off.
His mum meets him at the door and pulls him into a tight hug.
“How does she seem?” she whispers.
Tom hesitates, then says quietly, “Alright. Yeah. She’s… a character.”
His mum nods like she knows exactly what he means.
Tom slips inside, already scanning for his dad, eager to escape whatever introduction is about to happen between his mum and Jane.
An hour later, Tom flops down on the bed in his childhood room and stares at the ceiling like it might give him answers. The posters are still there. Same faint crack above the wardrobe. Everything feels smaller than he remembers.
He pulls his phone out and texts Elvi.
He barely has time to lock the screen before it buzzes.
From: El ❤️We miss you too, Tommy.
A photo follows—Rory on her tummy in the baby gym, brow furrowed in fierce concentration as she bats clumsily at the pink bunny Tom gave her weeks ago.
Tom smiles, wide and helpless.
I’m jealous you get to skip awkward Christmas with Harry’s latest shag :p
Looks like one of them birds off Love Island, Tom writes, then sends a picture of a duck for emphasis.
Elvi responds with a string of laughing emojis and a GIF of Donald Duck flapping around. Tom actually laughs out loud.
He sends a selfie, pulling exaggerated duck lips.
Maybe I should try that look too.
Don’t you dare, Elvi replies, followed by a skull emoji.
Don’t worry, love, Tom types back. I know you like my lips just fine ;)
I would like them in a lot of places.
Tom chokes on absolutely nothing.
His ears burn. His grin is uncontrollable.
Jesus, he types. Can’t go around saying that to a man. Gonna give me tuss just reading it.
A boner, Tom explains. Cornish.
Oh how scandalous ;) she writes. What will people say if they found out you spoke of such things with a maiden.
Do not fret. I shall defend your virtue, milady, he replies, attaching a GIF of a knight dramatically riding into battle.
His mum’s voice carries up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!”
BRB. Wish me luck. About to face family dinner.
He pockets his phone and jogs downstairs, still smiling like an idiot—already counting the hours until he can go back.
Dinner smells like rosemary and gravy before Tom even reaches the kitchen.
The table’s set properly — the good plates, cutlery his mum only brings out for Christmas, crackers lined up neat like they’ve been measured. His dad’s at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, beer already open. Harry’s slouched beside Jane, who’s sitting straight-backed, phone placed carefully next to her plate like it’s an accessory she’s allowing herself to have.
“Sit down,” his mum says, already hovering with the spoon. “Before everything goes cold.”
Tom drops into his chair, knee knocking the table leg like it always used to.
His dad starts carving the chicken. “You see the match last night?”
Tom perks up. “Yeah. Defence was shocking.”
Harry snorts. “Keeper was worse.”
“No chance,” Tom says. “Back line left him for dead.”
His dad hums, approving. “Midfield didn’t track back either.”
Jane glances up. “Which team is this?”
“Oh.” She wrinkles her nose faintly. “I don’t really watch sport.”
“That so?” Tom’s dad says neutrally.
She shrugs. “Just not my thing.”
“Well,” Tom’s mum cuts in briskly, smiling a bit too brightly, “more chicken?”
Plates clink. Gravy pours thick and steaming. For a moment, it feels normal. Manageable.
“So,” his mum says lightly — far too lightly — “how’s Elvi doing?”
Tom’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
“She’s alright,” he says. “Bit tired.”
“That’s understandable,” his mum nods. “Moving countries is a lot.”
“And the baby,” Harry adds, not looking at Jane.
She looks up slowly. “Sorry — baby?”
Tom opens his mouth, but Harry gets there first.
“Yeah,” Harry lets out a short laugh. “She’s got a kid.”
Jane’s eyes flick straight to Tom. “Oh.”
“Well,” she says, measured, “congratulations?”
Tom stiffens. “It’s not—”
Jane blinks. “Oh.” She looks between Tom and Harry. “Is it not his?”
Harry laughs properly this time. “God, no.”
Jane frowns. “Then whose is it?”
“The bloke left,” Harry says. “Did a runner.”
Jane’s mouth tightens. “Right.”
“That’s… a lot,” she adds.
“It is,” Tom says quietly. “For her.”
His dad takes a sip of beer, watching Tom over the rim. “Single mum’s not an easy road.”
“And you’re twenty,” his dad continues. “That’s what worries me.”
Harry nods. “Yeah, mate. I mean — you barely got your own life sorted.”
Tom exhales through his nose. “I’m not trying to sort hers.”
“But you are getting involved,” Harry presses. “That’s not nothing.”
Jane hums. “Especially when there’s a child involved.”
Tom’s mum clears her throat gently. “Elvi’s been very brave, dealing with all that on her own.”
Jane smiles thinly. “Or reckless.”
Tom’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice even. “She didn’t plan any of it.”
His dad sets his glass down. “Doesn’t change the reality.”
Tom leans forward slightly. “I’m not raising the kid. I’m just… there.”
Harry scoffs. “That’s how it starts.”
Tom shakes his head. “You don’t know her.”
His mum jumps in smoothly. “What’s she like?” she asks, clearly steering the conversation before it turns ugly.
Tom exhales, grateful — and then, without meaning to, he smiles.
“She’s funny,” he says. “Dry humour. Bit blunt. Says exactly what she’s thinking.”
Jane arches an eyebrow. “Charming.”
Tom ignores that. “She misses the Danish sea,” he goes on, smile widening despite himself. “Says it’s different. Colder. Rougher.”
His mum nods. “I imagine she does.”
“But,” Tom adds, glancing down at his plate, then back up, “she actually likes the beach by the park. Says it’s not the same, but it’s… calming. Helps her breathe a bit.”
Harry watches him now. “You sound gone, mate.”
“She laughs loud,” he continues, softer now. “Like she forgets herself for a second. And when she’s tired, she still talks to Rory like she’s the only thing in the room.”
His mum smiles, properly this time. “She sounds lovely.”
Jane snorts quietly. “She sounds overwhelmed.”
Tom shrugs. “Probably. Wouldn’t you be?”
His dad studies him for a long moment. “And you happy, son?”
Tom doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
Jane opens her mouth, then shuts it again.
Dinner carries on, but the air has shifted. His mum asks where Elvi’s from, whether she plans on staying in England long-term, what Rory’s like. Tom answers easily now, warmth slipping into his voice whether he means it to or not.
Jane complains about the carrots being overcooked. Harry tells a story about traffic that goes nowhere. His dad listens more than he talks.
When dessert comes out — trifle, heavy on the custard — Tom barely tastes it. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t check it, but his mum notices the way his mouth curves before he can stop it.
She catches his eye and smiles, small and knowing.
Later, upstairs in his childhood room, Tom shuts the door and lets out a slow breath.
Downstairs, voices carry — his dad murmuring, Jane’s clipped replies, his mum smoothing things over like she always does.
Already missing the quiet of a caravan.
After a while, there’s a soft knock at his door.
“Tom?” his mum says, peeking her head in. “Is it alright if I sit with you a minute?”
Tom sighs, already bracing himself. “If this is about Elvi and me being too young or—”
She lifts a hand gently, cutting him off, and comes in anyway. She sits beside him on the bed, close enough that their shoulders brush.
“It’s not like that,” she says. “Well… it is about Elvi. But I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”
She rests a hand on his shoulder.
Tom swallows. “I really like her, Mum.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I can tell. You haven’t smiled like that in a long time. Not since Ruth.”
He looks away, wiping at his eyes before the tears can fall.
“You’re really okay with her being a mum?” he asks quietly. “With… everything?”
She turns toward him fully. “Tom, look at me.”
“All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy,” she says. “After Ruth, you were just… lost. And it hurt my heart watching you carry that around.”
“You’ve got that spark back,” she continues. “I could see it the moment you walked through the door tonight. Elvi sounds lovely, and if this is something you want, then don’t let anyone talk you out of it. I raised you. I know the kind of man you are.” She smiles. “And if you ever decided to commit to something like this, you’d make an incredible stepdad.”
The word lands heavy in his chest.
Tom turns and hugs her tightly.
“Thanks, Mum,” he murmurs. “I’m just scared I’ll mess it up.”
She pulls back slightly so she can look at him. “The secret is,” she says, “everyone messes it up. Parents especially. You make mistakes, things go wrong — and you learn.”
Tom nods, breathing her in like he used to when he was little.
“Now,” she says briskly, wiping at her eyes and clapping her hands together, “tell me more about her.”
Tom smiles without thinking.
“She’s the best mum,” he says. “Loves Radiohead. Swears in Danish when she’s angry. Scrunches her nose when she laughs.” His smile widens. “She’s got freckles all over her face. And she calls me Tommy.”
His mum laughs. “You hate it when I call you Tommy.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, embarrassed, “she’s the only one who gets away with it. Think it’s the accent.”
“And how is she really holding up?” his mum asks carefully. “With being on her own and all.”
Tom hesitates. This feels private. But he asked for help.
“It’s been hard,” he admits. “Lately she’s been quieter. Not sad exactly — just… off. Stares into space. Less energy.”
His mum nods slowly, like she recognises it.
“Those first months after having a baby can be brutal,” she says. “You barely sleep. Your body doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. Everyone talks to you like mum is your name now.” She smiles faintly. “I remember standing in the kitchen once, holding Harry, and realising no one had asked me how I was in weeks.”
Tom listens, heart thudding.
“I felt like I disappeared,” she goes on. “Like the person I was before was put on a shelf somewhere.” She exhales. “And yes — slowly, it did get better.” She gives him a soft smile. “But not all at once.”
“Little things,” she says. “Time alone. Someone taking the baby so I could shower without rushing. Eating a meal while it was still hot. Sleeping without listening for every sound.” She laughs quietly. “Doing something I liked — reading, watching a show — reminded me I was still me, not just someone’s mum.”
“That space helped me find myself again.”
Tom nods, the picture settling into place.
“Thank you,” he says, hugging her once more.
She kisses his forehead. “I’m in your corner, Tom. Elvi’s too. And Rory’s.”
His phone buzzes on the bed.
His mum smiles. “That her?”
“Yeah,” he grins. “You wanna see them?”
He scrolls through his camera roll and hands her the phone. She gasps softly at the photo of Elvi smiling at Rory across the table.
“Oh, Thomas,” she says. “She’s gorgeous.”
She swipes to the next photo — Tom on the floor beside Rory in her baby gym.
“And look at those cheeks,” she laughs. “You just want to pinch them.”
“She’s the best baby,” Tom says, proud.
His mum squeezes his shoulder and stands. “I should probably go make sure Jane hasn’t given your father an aneurysm.”
Tom snorts. “Yeah… not a keeper, that one.”
“I bloody hope not,” his mum mutters.
“Mum!” Tom laughs. “Bad word.”
She winks, presses a finger to her lips, and closes the door behind her.
The next morning, Tom wakes at eleven to his phone buzzing against his chest.
From: Elvi ❤️You know what I really miss right now.
Tom smiles to himself and types back.
The reply comes almost instantly.
He snorts, rolling onto his back.
Ouch, he sends, adding a broken heart emoji.
Her response makes him laugh out loud.
I miss your ugly mug too.
Oi, he replies. Who taught you that?
Heard it on TV, Elvi writes. Thought it was funny. Because you have a very handsome-looking mug :)
Tom grins and sends a gif of someone swooning dramatically.
Awh, you think I’m handsome.
A photo pops up a second later.
It’s him. Asleep. Mouth slightly open. A very clear drool stain darkening the front of his shirt.
Tom groans, laughing so hard he nearly drops his phone.
You taking pictures of me when I sleep?
I have more, Elvi replies bluntly.
That just makes him smile wider.
Your night alright? he asks.
There’s a pause before her reply comes through.
It was fine. Rory was very fussy, so she slept in bed with me.
Tom’s fingers hover for a second before he types.
You’re doing amazing, El. You’re a great mum.
Is this my own personal cheerleader? she replies, followed by a laughing emoji.
I’d look proper fit in a cheer uniform, Tom shoots back.
We could go as cheerleaders next Halloween and you can prove it.
You already planning on keeping me around till Halloween?
It’s more than okay, he replies, adding a kiss emoji.
Before he can bask in it, his door flies open.
Harry barges in, hands clapped over his eyes. “Tom, you wanking or can I look?”
“Fuck off,” Tom groans, rolling out of bed. “What d’you want?”
“Mum said get up,” Harry says, peeking between his fingers. “It’s eleven-thirty, mate.”
Tom pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants and shoves Harry as they head downstairs, half wrestling, half laughing.
“Oi—no pushing on the stairs,” their dad calls as he passes them.
In the kitchen, Jane’s already at the table, silent, scrolling through her phone. Their mum stands at the sink, washing up.
“Mum,” Tom says, grabbing a mug, “can I take the car for a bit today?”
She glances over her shoulder. “Where you off to?”
“Shops,” Tom replies, distracted
Later that day, Tom comes home with two wrapped gifts tucked carefully under his arm, knuckles aching slightly from how tightly he’s been holding them the whole walk back. The paper is already a little creased at the edges. He doesn’t care. He’s smiling to himself like an idiot anyway.
“Hiya, Mum,” he says as he passes through the living room, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek before she can ask what he’s carrying.
“Alright?” she says, amused.
“Yeah,” he replies, already halfway up the stairs. “All good.”
He disappears into his room and sets the gifts down like they’re something fragile.
The rest of the week drags.
He texts Elvi constantly—short messages between family obligations, longer ones late at night when everyone else has gone to bed. She sends him pictures of Rory almost every day. Sometimes Rory’s serious, brow furrowed like she’s concentrating on something important. Sometimes milk-drunk and slack-jawed. Once, just her hand wrapped around the pink bunny Tom gave her, fingers gripping tight.
On the 24th, Elvi sends a photo of herself and Rory wearing Santa hats. Rory’s dressed as an elf, sleeves swallowing her hands, her expression somewhere between confused and unimpressed. A small pile of wrapped gifts sits behind her.
That’s how Tom learns Denmark does Christmas on Christmas Eve.
On his Christmas morning, he sends back a photo of himself wearing a paper crown, pulling an exaggerated face that makes him look faintly unhinged.
The days after blur together. Too much time with Harry and Jane. Jane is exactly what Tom expected—polished, sharp-edged, constantly checking her phone, correcting people in that way that sounds polite but isn’t. Every laugh feels forced. Every silence feels longer than it should.
The night before they’re meant to leave, his dad asks him to step into the office.
The door clicks shut behind them.
His dad doesn’t sit. He leans against the desk, arms folded, looking at Tom in a way that makes his stomach tighten.
“Look, Tom,” his dad starts, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know I haven’t exactly been enthusiastic about… all this.”
Tom shifts his weight. “Dad—”
“Just listen,” his dad cuts in, voice firm but not angry. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying this isn’t small.”
“That girl’s got a baby,” his dad continues. “She’s alone. And if you let her think she can rely on you—if you let her lean on you—and then one day you decide you’re not ready?” His jaw tightens. “That would do damage.”
Tom swallows. “I wouldn’t—”
“I know,” his dad says quickly. “I trust you. I do. But I need you to really think about it. Not just how it feels now. But what it means.”
“All your mum and I want is for you to be happy,” his dad adds more quietly. “That’s it. We’re just… protective.”
Tom nods, throat tight. “I know.”
His dad looks at him for a moment longer, then straightens.
“One day you’re face-down in the mud digging for worms,” he says, voice roughening, “and the next you’re a man making choices that matter.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Dad,” Tom mutters, blinking hard. “I think I’m gonna do this.”
His dad’s eyes sharpen. “You think—or you know?”
Tom meets his gaze. “I know.”
His dad steps forward, grips Tom’s shoulder, gives it a firm shake before pulling him into a hug.
“That’s my boy,” he says quietly.
The next morning, Tom is vibrating with impatience. He rushes Harry and Jane into the car, tossing his bag in the boot, ignoring Jane’s irritated looks.
The three-hour drive back feels endless.
The moment the car stops, Tom’s out.
“Bye, Harry. Bye, Jennifer,” he calls through the window.
“My name is Jane, you twat,” she snaps.
“Oi,” Harry says. “Don’t call my brother a twat.”
Tom’s already halfway down the path.
He nearly barrels straight into Kai.
“You back already, mate?” Kai laughs. “What, miss me that much?”
“In your dreams,” Tom grins, barely slowing.
Kai eyes the bag. “How was Christmas?”
“Same shit. Mum interrogated me about grandkids.”
Tom laughs. “Sounds about right.”
Kai smirks. “Straight back to the Viking then?”
Tom rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. “Her name’s Elvi.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kai says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re whipped, mate.”
Tom shrugs, smiling. “Got places to be.”
He doesn’t stop at his own trailer.
At Elvi’s, he peers through the bedroom window and spots her asleep with Rory tucked against her chest. His chest softens at the sight.
He slips inside quietly, sets his bag down, and carefully lifts Rory from Elvi’s arms, easing her into the crib. Rory stirs once, then settles.
Tom crawls into bed beside Elvi.
He kisses her forehead. Her nose. Her cheeks. Finally, her lips.
Her eyes open and the second she sees him, her face breaks into the widest smile.
“You’re back,” she whispers, pulling him into a hug.
“I missed you so much,” he murmurs. “I brought you something.”
“I got you something too,” she says, already dragging him toward the couch, laughing as she goes.
It’s a soft Batman hoodie, thick and worn-in like it’s already been loved. He freezes, staring down at it, then looks up at her in shock.
“Do you like it?” Elvi asks shyly. “I thought since you like those Batman pyjama pants, I would get you something to complete the look.”
Tom doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at her, mouth slightly open, a huge smile slowly spreading across his face.
“You hate it,” Elvi says, shoulders dropping.
“NONONO—baby, baby, no,” Tom blurts out. “It’s just—hold on. It’s better if you open yours too.”
He scrambles up, nearly tripping over himself as he goes to grab his gifts for her and Rory.
Elvi takes hers first. When she opens it and sees what’s inside, her mouth falls open.
Spider-Man pyjama pants. A matching tank top.
“Tommy,” she gasps. “I love it.”
“Wait, wait—open Rory’s,” he urges, handing her the last package.
Elvi opens it and lets out a soft laugh of disbelief. Tiny baby pyjamas—one Spider-Man, one Batman.
“Oh my god,” she says, jumping up and launching herself onto him. “I love it.”
She kisses him hard, and Tom smiles into it, arms tight around her, thinking there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
They get maybe an hour of peace.
Most of it is spent tangled together on the couch, kissing like teenagers with too much pent-up energy and nowhere else to be. Tom’s leg hooked over Elvi’s, her fingers knotted in his hair, mouths slow one second and urgent the next—breaths stolen, laughter swallowed, the world narrowing down to heat and closeness and the soft sounds they keep making against each other.
Elvi freezes instantly. Her body goes tense, breath hitching, the smile slipping from her face like it’s been pulled away.
Tom reacts before she can even shift her weight.
“I got her,” he says gently, already easing Elvi off his lap. He presses a kiss into her hair, grounding, certain. “Stay.”
“You don’t have to,” Elvi says, voice already dulling. “I think she needs a nappy change.”
“I can handle a diaper,” Tom calls over his shoulder, already halfway across the room, confidence loud even if it’s mostly bluff.
He’s watched Elvi do it enough times. How hard can it be?
The answer: harder than he thought.
It takes longer than it would if Elvi were doing it. There’s some fumbling, some muttering under his breath, a moment where Rory kicks and nearly escapes. But eventually—miraculously—Tom manages it. Clean diaper. No leaks. No disasters.
He straightens up, proud.
Then he remembers his mum.
“All right,” he says when he comes back into the living room, Rory perched against his chest. “I’ve got options for you, El.”
Elvi looks at him suspiciously, arms crossed.
“A,” Tom says, counting on his fingers, “you take my keys, go to my trailer. Shower. Nap. Stare at the ceiling. Have a wank. Whatever you want. Me and Rory stay here.”
Elvi snorts despite herself.
“B,” he continues, “you take a walk. Alone, if you want. Or we join.”
“Or C,” Tom finishes, smiling, “all three of us stay here. I take Rory. You don’t lift a finger unless she’s hungry.”
Elvi studies him carefully. “Why are you doing this?”
Tom shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “My mum told me what it was like after she had my brother. She had… um. Postpartum depression.” He clears his throat. “She said having time to decompress helped. A lot.”
Elvi’s mouth tightens. She looks down, then back up, thinking it through.
“C,” she says softly. “But I need a shower. I smell like breastmilk, sweat, and baby puke.”
“Still sexy,” Tom says immediately, pulling a ridiculous face. “Some might even say a proper milf.”
Elvi laughs, shaking her head, and leans in to kiss his cheek before heading toward the bathroom.
Once she’s gone, Tom holds Rory out in front of him.
“All right,” he says seriously. “What shall we do, Roo-bear?”
Rory squeals, arms flailing wildly.
“Roo-bear,” Tom repeats, delighted. “Yeah. That’s your name now.”
He lays her down gently in the baby gym and stretches out beside her, mirroring her movements, making exaggerated faces. They play for a while—Elvi taking her time in the shower, steam curling under the door.
Everything’s fine until it’s not.
Rory starts fussing. Then whining. Then escalating.
Tom tries toys. Peekaboo. Funny faces. Nothing works.
He scoops her up, pacing, bouncing gently. Carries her to the window, pointing outside. That helps—for about thirty seconds.
Then he has a stroke of genius.
The TV flicks on. Kids’ channel. Teletubbies.
Rory goes completely still.
Eyes locked on the screen.
Tom exhales a long, relieved breath. “You’re kidding me.”
He doesn’t even notice the shower turning off.
It’s only when Elvi sits down beside them that he realises she’s back. He turns to see her dressed in her new Spider-Man pyjama pants and tank top, hair damp, skin pink from the heat.
“Nice shower?” he asks, kissing her cheek.
“Mmhmm,” she hums, already hypnotised by the TV.
They sit like that for a while. Rory entranced. Tom half-watching. Elvi slowly relaxing into the cushions.
Then she breaks the silence.
“I don’t remember them being this creepy.”
Tom looks at her. “Creepy?”
“Yes,” Elvi says, laughing softly. “There’s a grown adult in there just making noises and jumping around.”
“Imagine someone asking what you do for a living,” she continues. “And you have to say you’re a Teletubby.”
Tom bursts out laughing. “Imagine the interview,” he says, switching into an awful American accent. “‘So, sir, could you jump up and down for me? Clap your hands too?’”
“How do you feel about purple?” Elvi adds, matching the accent.
They dissolve into laughter, shoulders shaking, trying not to upset Rory—who remains utterly devoted to the glowing screen.
Tom is halfway through cooking dinner with Rory strapped to his chest in the baby carrier when he realises—far too late—that this is significantly harder than it looks.
Rory has discovered her arms.
She flails with enthusiasm, smacking Tom in the jaw, then the collarbone, then his nose with terrifying determination.
“Oi—miss,” Tom mutters, dodging another swing as he stirs the curry. “Personal space, yeah?”
Rory responds by squealing and grabbing a fistful of his shirt, tugging it straight toward her mouth.
Elvi is in the bedroom with the door closed, curled up with a book, the quiet on her end of the trailer broken only by the occasional thump as Rory lands another hit.
By the time Tom plates the chicken curry and rice, his arms ache and his nerves are shot—but it smells incredible. Warm spices, coconut, garlic. Comfort food.
He settles Rory into her baby chair and goes to get Elvi.
She steps into the kitchen, pauses—and inhales.
“Oh yes,” Elvi exclaims. “I fucking looove curry.”
Tom stops short, blinking at her sudden enthusiasm. “Didn’t see that coming,” he laughs.
Elvi’s already sitting, waving at Rory before digging in. She takes one bite and lets out a happy little groan that makes Tom’s chest tighten.
“You really like curry, huh?” he says, smiling at her.
“It was one of my pregnancy cravings,” Elvi says once she swallows—then casually drops the bomb. “And I used to make curry every time I got the munchies.”
“Yes,” Elvi says, frowning slightly as she searches for the word. “When you smoke weed and then get… how do I say it… weed cravings.”
Tom barks out a laugh. “I know what munchies are. Just didn’t expect you to be a stoner.”
“I am Danish,” Elvi shrugs simply. “We are liberal when we want.”
“You continue to surprise me, you rebel,” Tom teases.
“There is much to know, Saxon,” Elvi shoots back without missing a bite.
“Anglo-Saxon,” she says calmly, entirely focused on her food.
Tom laughs loudly. “Oh, are we going there? All right then… heathen.”
“I wear that with pride,” Elvi says, puffing her chest out dramatically. “My ancestors would want me to.”
They laugh through the rest of dinner, easy and warm.
Later, Tom lies flat on the couch, Rory sprawled on his chest, her tiny hands gripping his shirt and dragging the fabric straight into her mouth, sucking on it like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.
Elvi sits on the floor beside him, leaning her head against the couch, eyes soft as she watches them.
“Thank you for today, Tommy,” she says quietly.
“No need to thank me, love,” Tom murmurs, scratching gently over the crown of her head. “I love hanging out with this mini heathen.”
Rory lets out a happy little noise, completely agreeing.
