“I don’t mind,” I say. And I don’t. Not even a bit.
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. Her hand drifts to her stomach without thinking, palm resting there in a way that’s already familiar. The bump is unmistakable now. Not dramatic. Just… there. Present. Real.
I follow the movement with my eyes.
“What do you want?” I ask.
She shrugs weakly. “Something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”
She looks down at her hand, rubs her stomach once, thoughtful. Then she looks back at me, eyes clearer now, faintly amused.
“I should eat my usual yoghurt and fruit but what Pea-Lime really wants,” she says, “are your ridiculous crumpets.”
“Come again?”Who or what is Pea-Lime?
“Pea-Lime. Wants. Crumpets.” She says slowly rubbing her baby bump. “Pea-Lime!” she repeats the ridiculous name and points at her belly.
“No, no, no. You are not giving my child a bonkers name,” I can’t help but laughing.What is it with her and coming up with nicknames?
“Ourchild and live with it because until I can give the baby a name I will call it Pea-Lime. Now feed us crumpets,” she grins at me.
I chuckle before I can stop myself. “Fine.”Pea-Lime… seriously?
She slides onto one of the bar stools at the island, curling her feet up on the rung, chin propped in her hand like she’s settled in to supervise.
I get the crumpets in the toaster, slice strawberries onto a small plate, move around the kitchen with the quiet confidence of someone who knows where everything is because he’s arranged it himself... and then had it reorganised by a goblin.
I butter the crumpets generously. No skimping. I set the plate down in front of her along with the strawberries.
She looks at it like I’ve handed her something sacred.
“You’re spoiling me,” she says.
“I’m feeding you,” I reply. “There’s a difference.”
She takes a bite and closes her eyes briefly, like she’s committing it to memory.
“God,” she says. “You’re dangerously good at this.”
“At crumpets.”
“At looking after people,” she corrects, still chewing.
That lands quietly. No fanfare. No expectation attached. Just a fact offered into the morning.
I lean against the counter, watching her eat, the kitchen warm and calm around us. No rush. No awkwardness. Just the soft clink of cutlery and the sense that this is the start of something neither of us is quite ready to name.
First morning.
Not bad at all.
She opens one eye and peers at me over the rim of her mug.
“So,” she says casually. Too casually. “You’ve got a date tonight, haven’t you?”
I blink. “How do you know that?”
