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Layla sighs as she makes her way up the narrow staircase of their building, feeling the weight of the day settled on her shoulders, pulling her down. She almost pauses as she reaches the landing, pressing a palm to her forehead and using the heel of her hand to wipe away the stressed tears beginning to fog her vision.
It had been another one of those days where nothing seemed to go right. First her contact on the Abydos job ghosted her without explanation, then the company from Rome refused to pay her because their carbonised Papyri from Vesuvius was damaged during transport, and somehow that was her fault. She managed to bring them back for a settlement of half the original price, but the small win was immediately wiped from her mind when her phone was stolen by a child pickpocket in the souk she took a shortcut through on her way home. She felt the little bastard’s hand leave her pocket, clocking him in time to give chase and eventually catch him, only to take pity on the wiry, tired-eyed kid and let him loose again with a handful of 200 pound notes.
Now, as she found herself at her front door, missing the lock with the key and scratching her finger instead, Layla had the strong desire to just collapse there in the hallway and sleep off this heavy stagnant feeling she’s been dragging around since midday.
Sniffing dryly, she finally manages with the lock and pushes through into the bright flat beyond. Before the door has even clicked back into its frame she is hit with the overwhelming smell of roasting chicken, garlic and something with a sharper tang. The hearty aroma envelops her, teasing out the furrow in her brow. Layla slumps against the wall to pluck at the laces of her cherry 1460s, then tosses them away beside the door where they join a second, larger pair of scuffed chukka utility boots. He’s home then, obviously.
The flat’s surprisingly clean, someone’s made the effort to plump the throw pillows and remove the growing collection of dirty cups from the bronze coffee table. The curtains are half drawn to keep the room cool, but the balcony door is obviously open, letting in a breeze that carries bursts of urban noise with every flutter of the fabric. Beneath the sheer coral material the brilliant sun still shines visibly, bathing the room in a welcoming amber glow.
As she pads over to the couch, plucking up the remote from where it lies on the coffee table, an eager face pops around the corner from out of the kitchen, the sweet brown eyes finding her with a smile.
“Heyya, how’s it going? I wasn’t expecting you back for another hour or so.” The man says in a North-London accent, his gentle tone uncharacteristic for a man of his hard build. Steven, then. The cooking should’ve tipped her off, but she was too tired for it to properly register.
Layla slumps down, still processing his words before she answers, and he seems to second guess himself. He stammers, “Not that I’m complaining, I just might have tidied up a bit first or-”
“Flat looks great. Much tidier than this morning.” Layla cuts through his timid ramble, exerting possibly all her remaining strength to twist her face into a genuine smile. It falls quickly, and she is left staring glumly at the TV.
From the corner of her eye Layla sees Steven fidgeting in the doorway, hesitating on whether or not he should approach her. With a bob of his head, he seems to come to his decision, shuffling around the furniture to perch on the couch beside her.
“Not a good day, then?” He inquires with a slanted smile. He’s wearing a loose white shirt beneath a navy linen shirt and matching shorts. The scents of the spice rack cling to the fabric, mingling with his eucalyptus shower gel in a surprisingly delightful way.
Layla meets those puppy-dog eyes, all creased up with concern, and she knows he genuinely cares that she’s upset. She doesn’t actually know a single person more genuine and innocent than Steven, it’s why she loves him. It’s why, rather than shrug it off, she opens up.
“I’ve just had a really shitty day. I mean, those fools in Rome tore me a new one because the transport company they arranged damaged the papyrus, then Rafael dodged our meeting, a week before we hit Abydos!”
Steven brings an arm up to rub her shoulder as she vents all of the frustration, shaking his head in disapproval of the shoddy conduct of her contacts. He nearly jumps, startled out of his skin when Layla’s own hands suddenly jump up to tangle through her curls, snatching fistfuls at the root as she growls.
“God, sometimes I feel like the only professional! Like I’m constantly having to pull everyone else up to standard and somehow still taking the hit for their idiocy. I mean, what else do I have any right to expect from a profession built from morally-bankrupt mercenaries and misogynists with too much money?”
The rage subsides as she spits her final curses, her short burst of animation dissipating with it. A shaky sob breaks the dam in her eyes, and a few hot beads roll down her face.
“Oh, no, come ‘ere.” Steven tuts, leaning in to catch Layla up in his arms. He strokes down the tufts of hair she pulled in her frustration, bringing his other hand to pat her lower back in a soothing beat.
Layla lets him sweep her up, grateful to hide her flushed face in his shirt. Gripping his waist tightly, she takes deep breaths against the fabric and lets it dry her tears.
She doesn’t cry often, it’s always felt like weakness to express any emotions aside from anger. Doubly so in her chosen profession, where she usually has to get by on cool neutrality to command the respect of the people she finds herself working amongst. It’s nice to be able to crack and pour like this, safe in the knowledge that she won’t ever be judged for her vulnerability by Steven. Even with Marc, who she knows the most intimately, this sort of thing just doesn’t come naturally.
“Listen, I’m not very good with words of comfort, but I just want to say I think you're bloody amazing. One bad day doesn’t change that.” Steven whispers against her hair.
“I’ve um, I’ve made molokhia for dinner. It’ll be another half an hour or so, so if you’d like I could run you a bath in the meantime? You could relax in there, or we could just watch TV if you’d like that?”
Layla draws back, sniffing and smiling dotingly as she gazes over his face. The minute differences always amaze her; how different he can look from the other’s, despite sharing the same face. It’s all in the way his jaw and brow relaxes; how his eyes light up with all the spirit and timid joy of a child who’s just been told they can stay up past their bed time. He is gentle, and soft, and clever- intellectually as much as emotionally.
Sometimes Layla wonders, had he been around during their first marriage, would she and Marc have been better? Made better decisions and lasted longer? Then she remembers that technically this is her husband, a facet of Marc’s personality. He was there all along, just buried.
“Yeah, um, a bath actually sounds pretty nice.” Layla smiles, fixing Steven’s rumpled shirt. “I think I’ve sweat through, like, every layer of clothing chasing that kid through the market.”
Steven cocks his head, raising his dark brows quizzically. “What kid?”
Layla chuckles, shaking her head. “No its… it doesn’t really matter. Point is, I'd love a bath. Thank you.”
“Brills.” Steven grins dopily. He springs up from the couch and edges back around all the furniture, nearly catching himself on the wide ash wood bookcase. He thrusts his arms in front of him, forming a thumbs-up sign. “One bath, coming up!”
His silly eagerness forces Layla’s lips into a grin, as she shakes her head and waves him off. Steven disappears down the little hallway to the bathroom, and in his absence she pulls her knees up to her chest and watches the curtains flutter, taking stock of the sound of her own breaths.
A couple minutes pass by, marked by the bleating sounds of traffic from outside of the balcony. Then Steven is back again, his shirt sleeves folded up above the elbow, though he’s still managed to splash himself with the water if the greyish patch on his t-shirt is anything to go by.
“Your bath is ready, m’lady.” He dips his head and gestures back down the hallway in an exaggerated manner.
“Ooh, I can’t wait.” Layla giggles, heaving herself back onto her aching feet. Steven busies himself with unrolling his sleeves, so that he doesn’t notice her sidestep over to him on her way out of the room. His eyes widen with shock as she plants a kiss on his lips, chaste and quick, but affectionate none the less. As she pulls back, biting her bottom lip and smiling, he stands momentarily frozen in his bashfulness.
Layla doesn’t wait for him to respond, continuing on her way out of the room. Just before he’s out of view she turns back, says with a voice thick with sentiment, “Thank you, Steven. Sometimes I really need you.”