“You bought me a crib.”
“Technically it’s for the baby,” I say. “And yeah, I bought one for my place too. I put it together last night, so this one should go pretty quick.”
Something flickers across her face. “You already have a nursery?”
“Working on it.” I pull out my phone and swipe to the picture. “This is what it looks like.”
She studies the photo, quiet for a moment. I try not to read too much into it, but there is something careful about the way she looks at the screen, like she is seeing more than just wood and rails.
“I’m going to make some tea,” she says. “You want some?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
She disappears down the hall, and I hear cupboards opening, the clink of a mug, the soft whistle of the kettle. I open the box and start laying out all the pieces on the floor, grouping parts together, lining up screws. By the time she returns, I already have the base of the crib started.
She hands me a cup of tea and drops onto the futon, one leg tucked under her. For the next twenty minutes I work while she watches. I can feel her eyes on me in that way you always can when someone is paying quiet attention. I glance over. She is holding her mug with both hands, gaze thoughtful.
“How’s work?” she asks, like the questionhas been hovering for a while. “My dad. Everything. Did he freak out?”
“About the baby?” I tighten a bolt and sit back on my heels. “He emailed me first thing that Monday after and asked me to come to his office.”
Her eyes widen. “That sounds ominous.”
“It felt ominous,” I admit. “But he was actually great. He asked if I planned to be involved, and when I said yes, he looked relieved, I think.”
Her throat works like she has to swallow that down. “He told me he liked you,” she says quietly. “When I told him you were the father. Said you were one of his best.”
The statement hits somewhere deep. I clear my throat and pick the wrench back up. “That means a lot.”
The room starts to feel hotter as I work, or maybe it’s just the combination of physical effort and the way she keeps watching me. I set the wrench down and pull my button-down off, leaving me in my white T-shirt.
When I straighten, I catch her looking. Her eyes track my arms, then jump to my face when she realizes I noticed. A flush creeps up her neck.
I feel it. Whatever lit up between us that night. And right now, in this little room full of crib parts, it feels like it’s still there, glowing under the surface.
I lock the last piece into place and tighten the final screw.
“There,” I say, straightening up. “It looks good, right?”
“Yeah.” She unfolds from the futon and walks over, stopping beside me at the foot of the crib. “It’s perfect,” she says softly.
We’re standing close enough that I can smell hershampoo, something citrusy and fresh. Close enough that when I glance over, I can see where my shirt has slipped further off her shoulder, exposing the slope of her chest.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how good she looks in my clothes. How her breasts have gotten fuller, straining against the soft fabric in a way that’s making it impossible to think straight. But I am. I’m thinking about all of it.
She shifts her weight, and I catch her eyes tracking across my chest, lingering on my arms. It’s not the first time today. She’s been watching me work for the last twenty minutes, and every time I’ve glanced over, her gaze has been somewhere it shouldn’t be if we’re really just co-parents.
The thing is, I haven’t touched her in three months. And none of this has faded. Not the attraction. Not the pull. If anything, it’s gotten worse. More intense. Like spending time together is only making it harder to ignore what’s still burning between us.
“I think I need more tea,” she says suddenly, her voice a little too bright. “You want a refill?”
She’s already moving toward the door before I can answer, putting distance between us like she needs the space to breathe.
I hear her in the kitchen, the sound of the kettle refilling, cupboards opening and closing. I crouch down and start gathering the leftover nuts and bolts, tossing them back into the plastic bag, breaking down the box.
When she comes back, she pauses in the doorway, watching me clean up the mess. She sets the mugs down on the windowsill. “Oh, I can clean that up.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, but she’s already moving toward me.
