Geoff stays by the sink for a moment, hands braced, staring at nothing.
“Theo is going to kill me,” he says finally.
I snort. “Murder feels dramatic. I’m predicting loud sighing, a lecture, and at least one very expressive pause.”
“He’s very expressive,” Geoff mutters.
“That’s not a crime,” I say. “Yet.”
He glances at me, a little wild-eyed. “Will you… stay?”
I raise an eyebrow. “For the fallout?”
“For the trial,” he corrects. “I’ll need a witness when I’m inevitably executed.”
I laugh. “I’m fairly certain Theo doesn’t own a weapon.”
“He haswords,” Geoff says darkly. “Sharp ones.”
I consider him for half a second, then shrug. “Alright. I’ll stay.”
His shoulders drop like I’ve just granted him parole.
“Thank you,” he says, relief plain.
“Think of me as moral support,” I add. “And a character witness.”
“That implies I have character,” he says.
“Debatable,” I reply, smiling.
As we head back into the living room, something nudges at the back of my mind. Not panic. Not dread. Just a persistent, irritating awareness.
I’ve been circling this moment for a week now. Wondering how to say it. When to say it. Rehearsing versions that sound too dramatic or too casual or like I’m trying to control the narrative before it’s even begun.
And now here I am. In his flat. Standing beside him while he worries about being murdered by his brother over a fringe.
If there’s some sort of higher power watching over this mess, it’s being very unsubtle.
I glance at Geoff as he moves back into the kitchen, checking on Lucy, automatically gentle again now that the crisis has passed.
Maybe this is the nudge.
Nottell him now, obviously. I’m not a monster. Lucy is still here, and no child needs to overhear life-altering revelations between tea and felt tips.
But soon. Once she’s gone. Once the flat is quiet.
I feel oddly calm about it.
As if whatever goddess, fate, or cosmic busybody is in charge has decided I’ve had enough time to overthink it.
Fine.
I take the hint.
By the time the front door closes behind Theo and Lucy, the flat feels twice its size.
Theo’s reaction had been loud. Not shouting exactly, but very pointed sentences delivered with the careful restraint of a man determined to be reasonable. There had been hands on hips. A slow inhale. Several reminders about scissors, supervision, and the fact thatchildren do not need fringe autonomy at five.
