I don’t make a thing of it. I just bump my knee into his. “Any time. Next appointment’s biscuits. Possibly cake. Depends how dramatic you’re feeling.”
That gets another small grin out of him. A real one. The kind that doesn’t feel like it’s being held together with string.
We sit there, shoulders almost touching, the flat warm again, the silence no longer sharp.
Geoff clears his throat.
“I think,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the sentence for weak spots, “I’m going to put the dating thing on the back burner for a bit.”
I glance at him, neutral. Interested, but not pouncing.
“I’ll keep doing therapy,” he adds quickly. “I’m not pretending the… situation doesn’t exist.” He grimaces. “The limp dick situation.”
I snort. “Strong branding.”
“I just mean,” he says, huffing a laugh, “for now I want to focus on the teaching. And the baby. And… carving something out that actually feels like my life instead of a series of attempts.”
I nod. It makes sense. Too much sense.
Then I tilt my head. “Okay. But...”
He winces. “There’s always a but.”
“I want you to promise me something.”
He turns to face me. “Go on.”
“That you don’t use me and the baby as an excuse to hide,” I say, matter of fact. No drama. No accusation. “This was hard. Dating is hard. I don’t want to become a very convenient bunker.”
He doesn’t deflect. Credit where it’s due.
“I won’t,” he says. Then, more honestly, “I don’t want to. I just… I need to fix one thing at a time. If I start dating again right now, I’m basically handing women a leaflet titled Emotional Landmines: A Guided Tour.”
“That would be a lot for a first date,” I agree. “Maybe keep that for date three.”
He chuckles, then hesitates. “What about you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What about me?”
“What about you dating?”
I bark out a laugh. “Have you seen my life lately?”
“That’s a no, then?”
“In my case,” I say dryly, “there’s no hiding it. Pregnant. Recently dumped. Living with a man who I just assaulted with dairy. It’s not exactly mysterious.”
“Fair.”
“And honestly,” I add, nudging the empty cream can with my finger, “I’ve got enough on my plate. Literally and metaphorically.”
He nods, thoughtful. “That makes sense.”
Then he tilts his head slightly, like something’s just clicked. “Can I ask you something?”
I eye him warily. “Historically, that question leads to nonsense.”
He ignores that. “You said the crumpets were the best emotional food you’ve ever discovered.”
