He goes to get the food while I set the table—a routine we've developed over the past few weeks.
Over pad Thai and spring rolls, we shift away from baby gear and tomorrow's pitch to lighter topics. Grant tells me about a property acquisition that's hitting unexpected zoning complications. I tell him about Poppy's latest band drama—apparently, their bassist has developed an inconvenient crush on their lead guitarist, who is unfortunately dating someone else.
"That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," Grant says.
"Oh, it absolutely is. Poppy's already planning intervention scenarios."
"Is an intervention really the right move? Seems like something they need to figure out themselves."
"That's what I said! But according to Poppy, if she doesn't mediate, the whole band is going to implode before their big gig next month."
Grant shakes his head, amused. "I don't miss being in my twenties."
The comment lands with a thud. Another reminder of the age gap that Samantha threw in my face, and that Victoria leveraged so expertly. I set down my fork.
"Does it bother you?" I ask. "That I'm twenty-four?"
He considers the question seriously, not deflecting. "Sometimes. Not because of you—because of how other people see us. They judge us, and I hate that." He reaches across the table, finding my hand. "But the actual age difference? No. You're more emotionally mature than most people I know at any age."
"I don't feel mature. I feel like I'm playing at being an adult half the time."
"That feeling doesn't go away as you get older. You just get better at faking it."
I laugh. "That's weirdly comforting."
"Good." He squeezes my hand. "For what it's worth, being with you makes me feel—I don't know. More alive than I have in years. Everything feels more precious to me."
I turn my hand over, threading our fingers together.
"You make me feel like maybe I don't have to do everything alone," I say quietly. "Like accepting help doesn't mean I'm weak or dependent. That's—that's huge for me."
"I know." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "And I'm trying really hard not to make you regret trusting me with that."
After dinner Grant insists on cleaning up while I review my presentation notes one more time. But when I pull out my laptop, he takes it gently from my hands.
"Alright, I’m not going to let you do this," he says firmly. "You've practiced enough. You know this material inside and out. What you need now is to relax."
"I can't relax. The meeting is in fourteen hours."
"Which is exactly why you need to step away." He closes the laptop decisively. "Come on. Let's do something completely unrelated to work or babies or any of the stress we're carrying."
"Like what?"
He considers. "When's the last time you just... watched something mindless on TV?"
"I don't even remember."
"Perfect. We're watching a movie. Your choice. Even if it’s something girly."
I want to argue. So badly.
But Grant's right. I'm as prepared as I'm going to be. And the anxiety coiling in my stomach isn't going to disappear by staring at spreadsheets.
"Okay," I finally say. "And I get to pickanythingI want?"
"Absolutely."
We end up on the sofa, my back against Grant's chest, his arms wrapped around me. I choose a romantic comedy I've seen a dozen times—something light and predictable to take my mind off everything else. Grant makes ridiculous commentary throughout, and I find myself laughing more than I have in weeks.
