“They are,” I say. “That’s just a fact.”
“Yes, but,” he says gently, “what were you dealing with that needed emotional food?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
He gestures vaguely between us, the counter, the empty cream can. “You don’t deploy that level of dairy intervention unless something’s up. So. What was it?”
For a moment, I consider deflecting. A joke would be easy. A flippant answer even easier. But the way he’s looking at me isn’t prying. It’s… present. Annoyingly so.
I sigh. “I’m a pregnant woman,” I say. “So there’s always something. Hormone-driven emotions. Random crying. Occasionally being horny at deeply inconvenient times.”
He huffs a laugh. “That sounds… intense.”
“It’s a delight,” I assure him. “Truly magical.”
“But today?” he prompts. “What about today?”
I stare at the counter, then shrug. “I was just feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
“By what?”
I laugh, short and humourless. “By everything.”
He waits. Doesn’t rush me. That’s new.
“I wasn’t sure I can do it all,” I admit. “The baby. Work. Starting over. Not losing myself completely. Not fucking it up.” I glance at him. “All very vague. All very loud.”
He nods slowly. “That’s a lot.”
“Thank you,” I say dryly. “I was worried I was being dramatic.”
“You’re not,” he says. “You’re human. And carrying another one.”
I snort and, before I can overthink it, lean my head against his shoulder. It’s instinctive. Familiar in a way that startles me after the fact. He goes still for half a second, then relaxes.
“You can always talk to me,” he says. “I’m happy to listen.”
I tilt my face up just enough to look at him. “Can you just… listen? Without trying to fix it?”
He considers this like it’s a dare. “I can try.”
“Try hard.”
He exhales. “It will be tough. I’m a fixer. It’s basically my brand.”
“I know,” I say. “But, if that’s what I need, can you do it?”
He nods. “Yeah. I can do it.”
“You are completely wasted on the celibate life,” I mutter.
He laughs, low and surprised. “I’ll put that on my CV.”
We sit like that for a moment. No talking. No analysis. Just breathing.
Then he clears his throat. “Can I do something?”
I don’t move. “That depends entirely on what you’re about to suggest.”
