She waits.
“They were not interested in self-soothing solutions.”
One eyebrow lifts.
“And Geoff,” I continue, words coming faster now, “was there. Awake. Calm. Very annoyingly competent.”
Ivy’s eyes widen a fraction.
“Oh.”
I nod once, staring resolutely at the table. “Yes. Oh.”
“So,” she says slowly, “you’re telling me…”
I exhale. “I was horny. Unreasonably. And he… helped.”
“With?” she prompts gently, because she is enjoying this far too much.
I wince. “His mouth. And his fingers. Which I feel the need to point out were… very talented.”
There it is. Out in the world. I hate everything.
Ivy leans back in her chair, silent for a beat.
Then she grins.
“Christa.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“That man,” she says, shaking her head in awe, “is a public service.”
“I am not framing it that way.”
“Oh, I absolutely am,” Ivy says. “And I’m also framing this as youfinallydating.”
I choke on my coffee. “No.”
She sits up straighter, eyes bright, already vibrating with excitement. “You are living together. You’re emotionally connected. There is oral community service involved. That is dating.”
“No, it is not,” I say firmly. “It is… situational support.”
She snorts. “That is the most you sentence you’ve ever said.”
“We are not dating,” I insist. “There is no romance. No declarations. No plans. This is just… practical help between two adults who accidentally made a baby.”
Ivy tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to work out whether I genuinely believe that.
“Right,” she says slowly. “So, what you’re saying is… friends with baby.”
“Yes.”
“And,” she continues, eyes sparkling, “friends with benefits.”
I point my fork at her. “Temporary. Hormone-induced. Entirely non-emotional.”
“Mmhmm.”
