“Professionally.”
“Yes.”
He leans back, running a hand through his hair. “And this works.”
“It does,” I say. “I’m making more than I ever did at reception.”
That lands.
His eyes flick to me, sharper now. “More.”
“Yes. Not billionaire money. But proper money. And the important bit is that if I stay working on reception, I am only ever entitled to SMP anyway. So becoming a full-time goblin would pay me much more in the short term and wouldn’t change anything through mat leave.”
He exhales. “Right.”
“The plan is to work now, take on as many tasks as makes sense, save, then actually rest during maternity leave instead of panicking about rent. And, when I’m back on my feet, I go back to goblining.”
He stares at the ceiling for a second, like he’s asking it for help.
“So your solution to being pregnant is to become self-employed and work harder.”
“Briefly,” I say. “Then I put my feet up. That’s the incentive.”
He drops his gaze back to me. “Christa. The whole point of you moving here would be to save money.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t need your money,” he says gently. “You don’t need to work. I can cover things. I want to.”
I feel something bristle immediately.
“How fascinating,” I say lightly. “I must have accidentally taken the bus to the 1950s.”
He winces. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t want to be kept. Or rescued. Or quietly shuffled onto the sofa with a blanket and told not to worry my head about finances.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “And I appreciate it. Truly. But I need to know I can contribute. Not because you expect it. Because I do.”
He studies me for a moment, something thoughtful settling in his expression.
“You’re serious about this,” he says.
“Painfully,” I reply. “I’ve done spreadsheets.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“And this,” I add, gesturing vaguely between us, “only works for me if I’m not giving things up that matter to me. Independence is one of those things.”
He nods slowly. “Alright.”
“Alright,” I repeat, relieved.
“But if I say yes,” he adds, holding up a finger, “we talk about numbers. And expectations. And what happens when you’re not working.”
“Yes,” I say. “Grown-up conversations. I’m on board.”
