He smiles at me then, soft and a little awed. “You’re incredible.”
“Organised,” I correct. “Still different.”
He laughs, shaking his head, and for the first time since I arrived, the room settles.
Not solved. Not decided.
But balanced.
My phone rings like it’s offended by the time.
I fumble for it, half tangled in the duvet, brain still somewhere in a dream involving spreadsheets and a missing shoe. The screen glows far too brightly.
Geoff.
I squint at the clock. “It’s three in the morning,” I croak. “Are you on fire?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Everyone’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. I just—”
I close my eyes again. “This better be important or I will end you.”
He exhales down the line. I can hear movement, footsteps, like he’s pacing.
“I want you to move in,” he says.
I open one eye. “Pardon.”
“With me,” he adds.
There’s a beat while my brain attempts to reboot.
“And,” he continues, rushing now, “I was thinking about everything you said and the space and the timing and the baby and the money and it just… makes sense.”
I push myself upright against the pillows. “Geoff. It is three in the bloody morning.”
“I know. I tried to sleep. I failed spectacularly.”
I snort despite myself. “So this is an insomnia-fuelled life decision.”
“No,” he says. “This is a considered one that happens to be happening during insomnia.”
I rub my face. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Like… really sure?”
“Yes.”
“And not just panicking because your brain won’t shut up?”
“Well,” he says carefully, “that’s part of it. But, even when it shuts up, I still want this.”
I smile into the dark. Annoyingly.
“You realise,” I say, “that if I move in, I will organise your entire house.”
“That’s a selling point.”
