He goes very still.
Then something in his face shifts. Not bravado. Not pride. Something softer, almost startled, like the weight of it has landed somewhere deep.
“Christa,” he says quietly.
I brace myself.
“I don’t know how you think I’m the kind of man who could hear that and walk away.”
My breath catches before I can stop it.
“I mean that,” he adds, voice steady but low. “I’m not offended you offered the option. I get why you did. But it was never, in fact, a choice for me.”
I study him. “You’re sure.”
He nods, once. “I’m sure.”
“Because this is not a light commitment.”
“I know,” he says. “And I’m not pretending it isn’t terrifying.”
He shifts closer, not touching, but present in a way that feels deliberate.
“I want to be there,” he says. “For you. For the baby. From the beginning. Not just the highlights. The boring bits. The hard bits. The bits where we’re tired and get it wrong.”
Something in my chest loosens, just a fraction.
“I can do that,” he says again, like he’s reassuring both of us.
I swallow. “Okay.”
“And us?” he asks, careful now.
I tilt my head. “What about us.”
He smiles, a little self-conscious. “Do we… try? Romantically.”
I glance down at his lap, then back up. “With Downstairs Geoff currently on an extended sabbatical?”
He huffs a laugh. “Timing has never been my strength.”
“And,” I add gently, “I don’t want to force something because it sounds tidy.”
He nods immediately. “Me neither. I don’t want this to start with pressure. Or obligation. Or a story we think we’re supposed to tell.”
That settles something in me.
“So,” I say. “Friends.”
“Friends,” he agrees.
“Who raise a child together.”
He looks at me then, properly, warmth flooding his face in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“Who raise a child together,” he repeats. “And take it seriously.”
I nod. “That I believe.”
