He frowns, genuinely baffled. “When?”
I gesture vaguely between us. “The night Pea-Lime happened.”
“Oh,” he says.
Then, “Oh.”
Then, after a beat, “Right. Yes. That.”
I grin. “You looked less confused then.”
“I was operating entirely on instinct,” he says. “Memory’s patchy.”
“That tracks,” I say. “You were very focused.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remember… enough.”
“Good,” I reply. “Because that’s my point.”
I meet his eyes now, the joking easing into something steadier.
“We’ve already crossed that line once,” I say carefully. “So you helping me out now wouldn’t exactly be unprecedented.”
He shifts his weight, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“Just to be clear,” he says lightly, a touch too lightly, “my dick is… not exactly leaping to attention these days.”
I snort. “I’m aware. It’s been on a sabbatical.”
“I’m serious,” he adds, a little defensive. “I don’t want to promise anything my body’s not signing off on.”
I step closer, lowering my voice like this is a board meeting. “Geoff. I distinctly remember that your fingers and your mouth were extremely competent.”
He freezes.
Slowly looks back up at me.
He lets out a laugh, half mortified, half smug. “Right. That.”
“I’m just saying,” I continue, breezy as anything, “friends with baby, friends with benefits… there’s overlap. This would basically be community service.”
He barks out a laugh. “Community service.”
“I’m pregnant,” I shrug. “I’m vulnerable. It’s charitable.”
He rubs his face. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” I say sweetly, “here you are.”
He thinks for a second, then tries again, hopeful. “What if we just… cuddled.”
I tilt my head. “Does this cuddling include a little licky licky?”
He chokes on a laugh. “You cannot say that.”
“I absolutely can,” I reply. “I just did.”
We both crack up, quiet laughter bouncing off the cupboards, the tension loosening enough to breathe.
