Ben climbs down from the ladder slowly, keeping the drill in his hand but away from Theo, making it clear with his body that he understands boundaries without needing to announce them. He sets it down on the desk, then kneels so he’s at Theo’s height, palms open and relaxed, like he’s used to children and knows you don’t tower over them if you want them to trust you. “If it’sokay with your mum,” he says, glancing at me first, “I can show you how it works. You won’t touch it. Just watch.”
I study him. He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t overstep. He checks with me, and something in my throat tightens in that way it does when someone gives you respect you didn’t realise you were missing.
“That would be fine,” I say carefully.
Theo practically vibrates.
Ben picks up the drill, turning it slightly so Theo can see the trigger. “This bit here is what makes it go. But you don’t just press it and hope for the best. You hold it steady, and you make sure you’re lined up first.”
Theo’s eyes follow every movement, his mouth slightly open like he’s watching magic.
“And you never put your fingers near the spinning bit,” Ben adds. “Ever.”
Theo nods.
I watch the two of them and something in me softens in a way that makes my eyes sting. Ben isn’t trying to impress him or perform. He’s just including him, explaining things, like Theo is worth the time.
When Theo’s attention drifts to the ladder again, Ben stands, setting the drill out of reach, then gestures to the ladder with a grin. “Do you want to be my official ladder inspector?”
Theo gasps. “Yes.”
“Right then.” Ben places Theo’s small hand on the side rail. “Give it a wobble. Tell me if it’s safe.”
Theo wobbles it dramatically, putting his whole body into it, then steps back as if assessing a crime scene. “It’s safe.”
“Excellent,” Ben says. “We could not do this without you.”
Theo beams like he’s just been given a medal. I feel something else then too, quieter and more complicated, a little grief for all the times Theo has had to be “fine” around grown men who don’tknow how to talk to him, or worse, who talk to him like he’s an inconvenience. The world is full of men who expect children to be invisible until it suits them.
Ben looks at Theo and sees him for him. Just that. No big deal. No performance. Just a simple, steady acknowledgement.
Break ends and Theo races back out to the playground to tell someone about his encounter with power tools, probably embellishing it with a dramatic near-death story, because he is my child and therefore allergic to understatement. When the door swings shut behind him, the classroom feels too quiet again, the kind of quiet that leaves space for thoughts you don’t want. Ben climbs back up to finish the blind, and I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’m alone in a room with a man. A normal man. A man my age. A man who is not the father of my child, not a teacher popping in to ask about photocopying, not a doctor making small talk at an appointment. Just a man. Here. With me. It should not feel like something I need to brace for, and yet my body does it anyway, because it’s been a long time since I’ve existed in this kind of space without a role to hide behind. I realise, with an odd rush of embarrassment, that I don’t know how to flirt any more. Not properly. Not in a way that feels natural. I know how to be competent. I know how to be funny in front of other mums. I know how to be friendly with staff. I know how to be polite. I know how to be guarded. But flirt? God no. I’m like a phone that hasn’t had an update in years. The function is there somewhere, in the settings, but it’s buried under about twelve layers of exhaustion and habit and fear of looking stupid.
Ben’s elbow shifts as he tightens the last screw. “You’ve got a lot of art up,” he says, nodding at the wall. “It’s nice.”
“Oh.” I glance over at the display, the children’s paintings all slightly lopsided, all attempts at sunsets and winter trees and snowmen that look more like angry blobs. “They love it. Themess, I mean. If I didn’t have something to stick up every week they’d assume I’d stopped caring and probably riot.”
Ben laughs again, and I feel a ridiculous spark of pride. I made him laugh. Go me. That’s a normal human interaction. This is fine. I’m fine.
He climbs down slowly, then steps back, watching the blind roll up and down as he tests it. The movement is smooth now, the fabric no longer sagging like it’s given up on life.
“There,” he says. “Reformed.”
I test it, just to be sure, pulling the cord gently and watching it glide. It works perfectly. “You might have just changed my life,” I tell him, and I mean it, because I am so tired of fighting inanimate objects on top of everything else.
Ben rubs the back of his neck slightly, like he’s not entirely comfortable being praised. “Happy to be of service.”
I should leave it there. I should say thanks, be polite, let him go. But something in me wants to keep the moment open for just another second, like I’m testing what it feels like to have a conversation that isn’t about lesson plans or packed lunches or who’s got a cough.
“So,” I say, leaning my hip against the desk again, then immediately hating that I’ve leaned my hip against the desk, because it feels like a deliberate pose. “Is fixing rebellious blinds your passion project, or do you do other thrilling things too?”
Oh my God. That was flirting. That was flirting and I did it on purpose. I feel heat creep up my neck, and for a second I want to hide inside the supply cupboard and never come out.
Ben’s eyebrows lift, amused, like he knows exactly what I’ve just done and isn’t going to make me feel stupid for it. “I do all sorts. Doors that won’t close. Chairs with attitudes. Toilets that choose violence.”
I laugh, too loudly, because I’m nervous. “The toilets in this school absolutely choose violence.”
He slings his toolbox strap over his shoulder. “I’ll be around most of this week,” he says. “If anything else starts plotting against you.”
