“Can I get you something?” I ask. “Tea? Water? A medically inadvisable amount of squash?”
She considers it, then her shoulders drop. “I’m hungry.”
“I can help with that,” I say, already heading for the kitchen.
Crumpets feel right. Warm. Non-threatening. Impossible to overthink. I shove them in the toaster and lean against the counter while they brown, my brain doing laps without asking permission.
I do have the space. Too much of it, really. The spare room that used to be my photo room is currently a glorified cupboard full of tripods, old lighting kit, boxes I haven’t opened since I stopped travelling. It wouldn’t even be that hard. A weekend. A charity shop run. Done.
And Christa would fit here. Not physically, she already does that anywhere, but… rhythm-wise. She’s tidy without being precious. Organised without being rigid. She’d probably alphabetise my spice rack and then apologise for it.
I could look after her. I already do, in small ways. Ice cream. Texts. Showing up when she needs something and not asking for anything back. This would just be… more of that.
And I wouldn’t miss anything. No updates second-hand. No pictures sent with captions likeyou should have seen this. I’d be here for the lot. Appointments. Kicks. The quiet, terrifying bits no one posts about.
The toaster pops. I jump slightly, like it’s caught me out.
I butter the crumpets generously, because there’s no point pretending restraint exists, and carry the plate back through.
Christa is curled slightly into the corner of the sofa, notebook abandoned on the floor, hands folded over her stomach like that’s where her centre of gravity has moved to.
I hand her the plate. “Eat.”
She smiles at me, small and grateful, and takes a bite like she’s been running on fumes. “God. Thank you.”
I sit on the armchair opposite, watching her eat, thinking.
This all makes sense. Too much sense. Which is usually where things get complicated.
“What if,” I say carefully, “I do start seeing someone.”
She pauses mid-chew, looks up. Doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t deflect.
“That’s fair,” she says after a moment. “I wondered when you’d get there.”
“And how long,” I continue, choosing my words like they might bite, “were you thinking of staying? If this happened.”
She swallows, wipes her fingers on a napkin she’s conjured from somewhere, and holds my gaze.
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Not forever. Not as in… this is my home now. I was thinking practical. Through the pregnancy whilst I do my goblin work and build up a following. Through maternity leave. Until I’m back on my feet.”
I nod. That helps. Boundaries. Timeframes. Things I can get my head around.
“I don’t want to get in the way of your life,” she adds. “Or your dating. Or whatever this bedroom ban situation turns into.”
I snort despite myself. “You volunteering to coach me still?”
“Absolutely,” she says, deadpan. “I have notes.”
I shake my head, smiling, then sober again just as quickly.
“And if I meet someone and it’s… serious.”
She shrugs, a little too casually. “Then we adjust. Like adults.”
That lands somewhere between reassuring and terrifying.
I lean back, running a hand through my hair, the shape of it all starting to settle in my mind. This isn’t reckless. It’s not romantic. It’s not a leap.
