I nod slowly. On screen, someone is arguing about tiles.
“What would you teach?” I ask.
“Photography,” he says, immediately. “Schools offer BTECs now. Actual courses. Not just ‘take a nice picture of a leaf’.”
I laugh. “Devastating for leaf photography.”
“They’d cope,” he says. “And it makes sense. I know the industry. I know how brutal it can be. I could teach them how not to get eaten alive.”
“That sounds very you,” I say. “Practical optimism.”
He grins. “High praise.”
The presenter announces a budget overrun. No one is surprised.
I lean back, the sofa dipping slightly under my weight, and something settles. Not loudly. Just enough to notice.
“That’s exciting,” I say.
“Terrifying,” he counters. “But good terrifying.” “And,” he adds carefully, eyes still on the telly like it’s providing moral support, “if I only did a few hours a week teaching, I could be around the rest of the time.”
I turn my head. Slowly. Like I’m approaching a suspicious noise.
“Around,” I repeat.
“For her,” he says. “Looking after her. Daytime stuff. Feeds. Walks. Naps. The glamorous bits.”
My brain stalls.
He keeps going, still maddeningly calm. “You’ve got your goblin jobs. They don’t stick to office hours. So we could… arrange it. You’re home when I’m at school. I’m home when you’re working. Tag-team it.”
He finally looks at me, tentative but steady. “If that works for you. Obviously. Just an idea.”
On screen, someone reveals a kitchen island and cries. I feel dangerously close to joining them.
“That’s,” I start, then stop because my mouth has decided to betray me. “That’s a lot of thinking.”
“I’ve had some practice,” he says lightly. “I’m very good at thinking quietly.”
I stare at him. At the man who sorts laundry without being asked. Who brings decaf tea and apologises. Who is now casually discussing childcare like it’s just another logistical puzzle.
This is commitment. Not loud. Not dramatic. The practical kind that turns up with a plan and a calendar.
My chest does an entirely unnecessary little swoop.
“That’s… generous,” I manage.
He frowns. “I wasn’t aiming for generous. More… workable.”
“It’s still a lot,” I say, because my brain is scrambling. “You’re talking about reshaping your life.”
He shrugs. “It already is.”
That lands harder than it should.
Inside, a small, traitorous part of me is swooning. Sensibly. With spreadsheets.
Outwardly, I keep it together. Mostly.
