Tulip

Jack’s office smelled like old paper, coffee, and something metallic . . . coins maybe, or the tang of age-worn furniture. A heavy wooden desk took up most of the space, its surface cluttered with receipts, an old leather-bound ledger, and a dented metal tray stacked with loose change. A desk lamp cast dim light over it all, stretching shadows across the room, making the exhaustion in Jack’s face seem heavier.

It was a functional space, not cosy. The kind of office where business happened, not conversation. The faint hum of the fruit machines in the bar seeped through the walls, their mechanical jingle clashing with the low thud of bass-heavy music outside.

Ellen’s eyes flicked to the wall behind Jack. A framed military certificate hung there, slightly crooked, next to a photo of a younger Jack in uniform, standing with a group of men in fatigues. Below it, another frame held a collage of Seth, from childhood to now.

She had seen it before, noticed it in passing. But now . . . now she really looked.

There was Seth as a toddler, his small face round and bright. As a boy, standing beside a school trophy. As a teenager, taller, leaner, but still with the same unreadable eyes.

His mother wasn’t in any of them.

Ellen’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. Why not?

Jack’s voice pulled her back. “You haven’t been home.” Not a question. Jack leaned forward, arms bracing against the desk.

“Two days, Ellen. Nearly two damn days. You’re walking around like a ghost, and now I’ve got Tracy tellin’ me you’ve got a suitcase in the boiler room.”

Ellen’s stomach twisted.

Her mouth opened. “I… erm…”

“Bullshit.”

She flinched.

Jack slammed his hand against the desk . . . not violently, not dangerously . . . just enough to shut her up. The sharp crack of impact rang through the small office, punctuated by the muffled laughter and clinking glasses filtering in from the bar.

“I don’t have time for stories.” His voice was controlled, clipped. “I wanna know exactly what the hell is going on, and I want to know now.”

She swallowed, her throat dry.

This was it.

No more hiding. No more pretending she wasn’t a homeless, exhausted wreck of a person, barely held together by caffeine and stubbornness.

“I… I’ve nowhere to go.”

Jack exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw.

Ellen looked away. “It’s fine,” she added quickly, desperate to patch over the mess before he made it worse. “Seth’s going to ask his landlord if I can rent the other room in his apartment…”

Jack’s head snapped up so fast it was like she’d just announced she was moving in with the devil himself.

“The hell he is.”

Her stomach dropped.

Jack pushed himself up from the desk, pacing now, shoulders coiled, jaw tight.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered before turning back to her. “Seth’s lying.”

Ellen’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Seth had lied?

No. That didn’t make sense.

Her eyes drifted back to the collage on the wall, to Seth’s face through the years. He had always looked the same, even as a child. That same detached, distant stillness. Something about it unsettled her now, more than before.

Jack sighed, a long, exhausted breath, like a man who had seen every possible mistake a person could make and was tired of watching people make them anyway.

“Look,” he said, his voice calmer now, but still edged with something sharp. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s… different. He needs space. He needs to be alone.”

His fingers tapped against the desk, his mind clearly working through what to say next. Then, finally, the truth dropped.

“Seth doesn’t have a landlord.”

Ellen frowned. “What?”

Jack scoffed, shaking his head. “You think I don’t know what goes on under my own damn roof? Seth’s got an apartment with two rooms. Both paid for. By me.”

Ellen felt the words sink like dead weight into her stomach. No. That wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. Seth had told her . . . no, he had believed it. But . . . what if he hadn’t?

Jack exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “He needs to be alone, Ellen.” His voice wasn’t just firm now . . . it was final. “He’s not ready to be around people. Especially not a woman who might confuse him.”

Ellen’s fingers curled into the hem of her shirt. Confuse him. What did that mean? She opened her mouth to ask, but Jack cut her off.

“You ever stop and wonder why a guy like Seth… polite, well-spoken, looks like he walked straight out of a damn catalogue… is working behind a bar?”

Ellen swallowed. She hadn’t, really. Not properly.

Jack sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking at her again. And this time, his voice had changed. Still sharp, still gruff . . . but there was something else beneath it now.

“Because I told him to,” he admitted. “The day shift. Because he’s not ready for anything else.”

Ellen felt her breath catch.

Not ready.

She had no idea what that meant. But she could tell, without him needing to say it, that it was serious.

That Jack wasn’t just being overprotective. That Seth’s past held something she wasn’t meant to know. And Jack was making damn sure she never would. The collage on the wall suddenly felt different. Like a collection of moments Jack had frozen in time, as if capturing Seth at every stage of life would somehow let him hold onto something he couldn’t control. The gap where his mother should have been stood out more than ever.

Ellen felt hollow. Like the ground beneath her had cracked open, and she was standing on nothing but air.

Seth didn’t have a landlord.

Jack was paying for his place.

He wasn’t ready to be around people. Especially not her.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, gripping onto nothing.

“I…” she started.

“Don’t.” Jack’s voice cut through the room like a blade, flat and unforgiving.

“I should fire you.”

The words landed like a gut punch.

Ellen blinked, her body lagging behind her brain, like the exhaustion was slowing her ability to process what was happening.

Jack was still talking.

“This isn’t professional. You show up to work half-dead, dropping glasses, sneaking around the back rooms instead of going home. You think that’s safe? For you? For anyone?”

Ellen swallowed, but her throat was too dry, too tight.

She had been running on fumes for so long, she had forgotten what it felt like to have the rug ripped out from under her.

She was going to lose everything.

Again.

Jack let out a sharp breath, shaking his head like he was working through an internal battle.

Then, finally, he waved her off.

“Go on. Get back out there. I guess I’ll have to take up your slack tonight.”

Ellen nodded quickly, her limbs moving before her brain had caught up. She turned, reaching for the door, ready to re-enter the bar, to pull herself together, to . . . 

“Wait.”

Jack’s voice halted her in her tracks.

She turned back.

He wasn’t looking at her any more. He was looking at the coffee.

The latte Seth had made.

The tulip pattern sat clean and precise on the surface, swirled in delicate folds of steamed milk.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

His fingers curled around the cup, lifting it slightly, examining the way the design held its shape, the balance of white against brown.

He was quiet.

Longer than she expected.

Then, finally . . . 

“You teach him this?”

Ellen hesitated. “Yeah, he seemed to really enjoy it.”

Jack didn’t look up. He just kept staring at the coffee, like it had just confirmed something he hadn’t wanted to admit.

Ellen swallowed, suddenly feeling the need to fill the silence.

“He was awful to begin with,” a small laugh escaped from somewhere. Bubbling up from the depths of memory and exhaustion. “But he’s determined. He can do a lot more than just latte art now. Every pattern I know how to do in the foam, he’s mastered. I spent hours teaching him. Bet he’ll probably be able to do even more than I can by the end of the week.”

She shifted her weight, rubbing at the back of her wrist. “He seemed to like it. It made him happy.”

A pause.

A flicker of something in Jack’s expression.

She shifted. “Sorry, if we went through too much milk. You can take it out of my wages.”

The words came out too fast, and she realised the weight of what she had just offered a second too late.

She had nothing . . . and she had just offered a wage deduction. A hollow feeling spread in her chest.

Jack’s jaw flexed. His expression didn’t change.

But something in the room shifted.

The latte sat between them, delicate and fleeting, like something too carefully crafted to last.

Ellen stood there, unsure if she was waiting for permission to leave or bracing for another blow.

Jack still hadn’t looked at her. His fingers stayed curled around the cup, knuckles just slightly tense.

Finally, he exhaled, setting the latte back down with a quiet thud.

“You need to get your act together.”

Ellen nodded too quickly. “I will. I…”

“Before your shift is over.”

She blinked. “What?”

Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He was still annoyed, still exhausted, still clearly at the end of his patience . . . but something had softened. Just a fraction.

“There’s a cork-board in the lobby.” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “Outside the men’s toilet, next to the condom machine.”

Ellen’s stomach twisted.

Of course there was.

Jack didn’t bother explaining. He knew she’d catch on.

“There’s a list of hotel numbers pinned up there,” he continued. “The kind that take cash, no questions asked. Book yourself a room before they all get taken.”

His words fell somewhere between the cracks of kindness and command.

Jack leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples like this entire conversation had cost him something.

“They’re cheap, and they’ve got showers,” he added, his tone gruff but deliberate. “I know you’re gonna be using your tip money.”

A lifeline.

Not salvation. But something.

Jack picked up the coffee again, finally taking a sip. Ellen took this as her cue to leave. Just as she placed a hand on the door, Jack spoke again.

“This conversation stays between you and me if you want to keep your job. And you need to tell Seth that you can’t rent his spare room. He mustn’t know I’m his landlord.”

Ellen paused, hand on the door handle, absorbing Jack’s warning.

“Understood. I’ll go call that hotel.” She opened the door a crack, the noise of the bar spilling in . . . fruit machines, distant laughter, clinking glasses . . . then hesitated again, hovering.

She turned back to Jack. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes had drifted back to the latte, to the delicate swirls of steamed milk his troubled son had created.

“Thank you, Jack.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

The door shut behind her, muting the bar once more.