She folds her arms, waiting, but not impatiently. Curious rather than demanding. That helps.
“I’ve had some… issues,” I say carefully. “Performance-wise. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make things unreliable.”
She frowns slightly, not unkind, just genuinely trying to understand. “What do you mean by performance?”
I take a breath. There’s no elegant way out of this and I’m done attempting it.
“My dick,” I say.
She blinks.
I plough on, because stopping now would be worse. “Sometimes it cooperates. Sometimes it very much does not. And it tends to pick the worst possible moments to go on strike. So I stopped pretending I could charm my way past it and decided to just deal with it.”
There’s a beat. Then another.
“Oh,” she says. Not shocked. Just recalibrating. “Okay.”
“I realise that’s not exactly light hallway chat,” I add. “But there it is.”
She studies me for a second, then nods slowly. “So the taking it slow thing…”
“Isn’t a tactic,” I say. “It’s survival. Less pressure. Less panic. More chance my body remembers we’re on the same team.”
She huffs out a quiet laugh. “That is… surprisingly sensible.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve had professional help.”
She gives me a small smile. “Thank you for telling me. I can imagine that wasn’t easy.”
“It was not,” I agree. “I would rather confess to tax irregularities.”
She considers that, then asks, gently, “And the baby. And Christa. You’re… okay with all of that.”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Terrified. But okay. And I didn’t want to start anything with you unless I could be honest about the big stuff.”
She nods, thoughtful. “I appreciate that. Even if the timing was… dramatic.”
“Understatement of the year,” I say.
She lets out a small breath, shoulders easing. “I can understand why you wanted to check if there was something there,” she says. “I’ve been doing the same thing, if I’m honest.”
I blink. “You have.”
“Yes,” she says. “Because I like you. You’re kind. You listen. You don’t make me feel like I’m auditioning for anything.” She hesitates, then adds, “But I also have to admit there weren’t exactly sparks flying.”
That lands softer than I expect. More relief than sting.
“Then why invite me back?” I ask, genuinely curious now rather than defensive.
She gives a self-aware little grin. “Because sometimes sleeping together is where the spark turns up. Or at least that’s what I’ve told myself in the past.” She shrugs. “You came across as a genuinely nice man, Geoff. I thought maybe the chemistry would catch up if we gave it a nudge.”
I nod slowly. That makes an uncomfortable amount of sense.
“And now,” she continues, gentle but clear, “I think maybe it’s just not there.”
I wait for the disappointment to sink in. It doesn’t.
“We’re… nice,” she says. “We’re very nice together. But nice doesn’t make the bed shake.”
