The machine starts its cycle, a low hum coming from the utility room.
He glances at me. “For what it’s worth, your underwear ranks highly.”
“Ranks.”
“Consistent. Confident. Strong showing.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, “here we are. Ranking pants in my utility cupboard.”
I look at the open door to the small room. Back at him. Then at the sock on the floor neither of us picks up.
I absolutely refuse to think about any of it.
Instead, I point at the dials. “If you shrink my clothes, I will never forgive you.”
He raises his hands. “Gentle cycle only.”
The living room smells faintly of fabric softener and garlic. That’s a sentence that should not exist and yet somehow works.
We’re on the sofa with a polite cushion buffer that neither of us believes in. The telly is on some home improvement show where a man in suspiciously clean boots is explaining why knocking down a perfectly good wall will improve the flow.
“It’s always about flow,” I mutter.
Geoff hums in agreement, eyes on the screen. “If anyone ever suggests improving the flow of this flat, I’m moving out.”
“They’ll take the wall behind the fridge,” I say. “It’s always the fridge wall.”
On screen, the wall comes down. Everyone cheers. The dust is aggressive.
Geoff shifts slightly, then says, very casually, “I’ve been thinking about doing my teacher training.”
I blink. “Sorry, what?”
He glances at me, then back at the telly, like he’s just commented on the weather. “Training to be a teacher.”
I sit up a bit. The cushion buffer slides away traitorously. “Since when?”
“Since the workshop,” he says. “At Declan’s school. I’m nearly at the end of it.”
“The one you said was just a favour.”
“It was,” he replies. “Turns out I really enjoyed it.”
I study him more carefully. He’s relaxed. Not performing. Not joking his way out of it.
“And,” he adds, still far too calm, “I think I’m actually quite good.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “Yeah. I can see that.”
He looks at me then, surprised in a small, pleased way, like he hadn’t expected that to land so easily.
“It would mean going back to uni,” he says. “For a year. Add a teaching qualification.”
“That’s… big,” I say.
“Mm. But manageable. I don’t need full-time work. Just something that feels like it matters.”
