I’m still where I was when he stepped outside. Sitting on the stool, plate in front of me. The crumpet is halfway demolished, hazelnut and chocolate spread smeared into something that could only generously be called even. Squirty cream is melting into it with the quiet determination of dairy that knows it’s won.
I don’t look at him straight away.
“Well,” I say, because silence would be worse. “That was quick.”
He doesn’t answer.
I glance up then. He’s standing just inside the door, hands empty, shoulders tense, eyes unfocused. Like he’scome back into the room physically but left part of himself on the landing.
“What happened?” I ask. Not softly. Not sharply. Just… there.
“She left,” he says whilst taking his jacket off.
Ah.
I nod once. No commentary. No follow-up questions. I take another bite of crumpet instead, mostly to give my mouth something to do while my brain files that underThings That Went as Expected but Still Hurt.
He exhales, slow and heavy, like he’s letting something deflate.
Instead of hovering or bolting or staring into the middle distance like a Victorian orphan, he shuffles over to the kitchen island and drops onto the bar stool beside me. Close. Close enough that his knee bumps mine.
He eyes my plate with deep suspicion.
“That,” he says carefully, poking the crumpet with one finger, “looks absolutely disgusting.”
I glance down at it. The hazelnut and chocolate spread is everywhere, the cream has collapsed into a glossy, slightly obscene puddle, and the whole thing has the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.
“It’s amazing,” I say, defensive already.
“It looks like it lost a fight.”
I take a deliberately massive bite, cheeks full, swallow with determination, then tip my head back and spray a big dollop of squirty cream straight into my mouth.
Geoff snorts. An actual, undignified snort.
“Oh my God,” he says, laughing despite himself. “How old are you?”
“Emotionally?” I say, licking a bit of cream off my thumb. “About nine. Spiritually? Ancient.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, and, for the first time since he stepped back inside, something in his face loosens. The tightness around his eyes eases. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“This,” he says, gesturing at the crumpet, “cannot possibly be helping.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” I reply. “This is the best emotional food I’ve ever discovered.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Better than wine?”
“Much better than wine,” I say firmly. “Wine lies to you. This doesn’t. This says yes, everything is a bit shit, but here is sugar and dairy and joy.”
He laughs again, quieter this time. “That’s… disturbingly convincing.”
“Works faster too,” I add. “No hangover. No crying at strangers. Just instant cheer and a mild sense of shame.”
I hold out the squirty cream to him.
He eyes it like it might explode. “No.”
“Oh come on,” I say, nudging his elbow with mine. “You know you want to.”
