Chapter 14
It’s not romantic
Geoff
I’m lying on my sofa with my phone balanced on my chest, scrolling with the sort of focus normally reserved for waiting rooms and delayed trains.
Dating apps.
Plural.
In theory, this is progress.
In practice, it’s like flicking through slightly different versions of the same conversation and realising you’re bored of all of them before you’ve even finished your tea.
I swipe. I match. I message.
Hi, how’s your week going?
Busy but good!
You?
Same.
Thrilling. I miss just going out to bars and picking up a woman. It was a lot easier.
I glance around my flat. Quiet. Tidy. Pee-Pee’s voice floats back to me, irritatingly calm.
Focus on connection. Conversation. No pressure.
Great. Love that for me. Except dating, as it turns out, is built almost entirely on the unspoken assumption that if you don’t cock it up, there will eventually be a bedroom involved. Remove that and everyone seems to stall out around message four.
My phone buzzes.
Anna
So what are you looking for on here?
Ah. The question.
I stare at it longer than necessary.
What am I looking for. A coffee. A walk. Someone to talk to without the looming expectation of my dick needing to make a guest appearance.
I type, delete, type again.
Me
Something low-pressure. Getting to know someone properly.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Anna
Oh. Like friends?
No. Not that. Not exactly.
Me
More like… dating without rushing.
There’s a pause long enough that I start wondering if I’ve been unmatched.
Anna
That’s different :-)
The smiley face feels like judgement.
I lock the phone and drop it onto the cushion beside me.
This is ridiculous. I’ve flown across continents for work. Negotiated contracts. Talked my way out of parking tickets. And yet here I am, stumped by the idea of inviting a woman for a drink without an implied itinerary.
I pick the phone back up and check the other app.
Another match. Sophia. Good smile. Likes hiking. Has opinions about sourdough.
Sophia
So what’s your ideal first date?
I snort quietly.
Ideal. At this point, I’d settle for not awkward.
I picture it. Sitting across from someone. Talking. Laughing. Leaving at a sensible hour without anyone feeling rejected or misled. No mental countdown. No pressure to perform. Just… company.
I type.
Me
Coffee. Walk. Somewhere we can talk without shouting over music.
That feels safe. Boring, maybe, but safe.
She replies almost instantly.
Sophia
That sounds really nice.
I pause, surprised by the small rush of relief.
Huh. Maybe this isn’t impossible. Maybe I’m just out of practice at doing things without a script.
My phone buzzes again.
Sophia
Are you free this weekend?
My stomach flips. Not panic. Anticipation. The manageable kind.
Me
Saturday evening?
Sophia
Perfect.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling.
Right. So. A date. A real one. With no bedroom waiting at the end like a finish line.
I should feel nervous.
Instead, I feel… oddly calm.
Which is when my brain, traitorous as ever, decides to serve up Christa. Sitting on her sofa. Ice cream melting. Laughing at me. Offering to coach me through this like it’s a project plan.
I groan and cover my eyes with my arm.
Focus, Geoff.
This is fine. This is normal. This is exactly what Pee-Pee meant.
I lower my arm and glance at the phone again, the confirmed plans sitting there quietly.
A date that ends with a goodbye.
No pressure. No performance.
Just conversation.
I exhale.
Alright then.
Let’s see what happens when I don’t try to skip to the end.
There’s a knock at the door.
I frown at the ceiling, then at the door, then at the phone still warm in my hand. I’m not expecting anyone. I consider ignoring it for a second, but the knock comes again, sharper this time. Purposeful.
I swing my legs off the sofa and open the door.
Christa stands there, coat half undone, bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly windblown like she’s walked fast and argued with herself the whole way. She looks… focused. Dangerous.
“Hi,” she says. “I’ve had an idea.”
I blink. “Okay.”
“And it might be a stupid idea,” she continues, already stepping past me and into the flat, “but it’s also quite a logical one, so I thought I’d better say it out loud before I either talk myself out of it or fully commit and buy colour-coded folders.”
I close the door slowly behind her. “Do I need to sit down?”
“Probably,” she says, already scanning the room before pointing at the kitchen island. “Why is your post pile there instead of by the door?”
I stare at her. “Christa.”
“Yes, sorry.” She stops mid-step and turns to face me. “Focus.”
She takes a breath. Then another. Then gives up on the idea of calm entirely.
“I might need to move,” she says. “Not might. I definitely need to move. And I’ve done the numbers and the timings and spoken to Ivy, who should not be allowed opinions, and this is where it gets weird.”
My brain scrambles to keep up. “That is a lot of information for thirty seconds.”
“I know,” she says. “I didn’t want to lose momentum.”
She drops her bag onto the chair, pulls out a notebook, then freezes. “Right. Before I say this, I want to be clear that I am not suggesting anything romantic. At all. In any way.”
I nod slowly. “Good start.”
“And I know we said friends. Just friends. Very sensible friends.”
“Yes.”
“And that we’re being grown-ups about this.”
“Christa.”
She points at me. “Let me finish.”
I raise my hands. “Finishing encouraged.”
She takes another breath, clearly trying to rein herself in. “Ivy thinks I should move in with you.”
The words land and sit there.
My brain empties completely.
“I’m sorry,” I say eventually. “I think I missed a sentence.”
“She thinks,” Christa repeats, “that from a purely practical point of view, it makes sense. You have space. I pay an obscene amount of rent for what is essentially a cupboard. You want to be involved with the baby. And it would save me money.”
I stare at her. She stares back, eyes bright, braced.
“And before you say anything,” she adds quickly, “I am not saying yes. I’m not even saying this is a good idea. I’m saying it exists.”
Silence stretches.
I rub a hand over my face. “I was just… dating.”
She squints. “Like right now.”
“Like… five minutes ago. On my phone. Not in person. But I just agreed a date.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her all of this. It has nothing to do with the bomb she just dropped in my living room slash kitchen.
She winces. “Okay. Bad timing.”
“No,” I say slowly. “Just… surprising.”
She paces once, then stops. “You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to react. I just needed to put it somewhere that wasn’t my head.”
I study her. The tension in her shoulders. The way she’s holding herself like she’s expecting rejection but won’t flinch if it comes.
Confusion is still winning out over everything else, but underneath it there’s something steady.
Something that makes sense.
“I’m not saying no,” I say carefully.
She exhales. “Good. Because that would have been awkward.”
“I am saying,” I continue, “that I need about ten seconds for my brain to reboot.”
She nods. “Take fifteen.”
I lean back against the door, heart thumping, and try to catch up with the whirlwind that has just walked into my flat.
Dating. Bedroom bans. Babies. And now… cohabitation.
Pee-Pee would have a field day.
I look at Christa, notebook clutched to her chest like a shield, eyes fixed on me.
“This is,” I say, “a lot.”
She huffs out a laugh. “I did warn you.”
She’s not wrong.
Not even a little.
I step closer, slow and deliberate, like I’m approaching a skittish animal rather than a woman who just upended my evening.
“Come and sit down,” I say gently, guiding her towards the sofa with a hand at her elbow. “Before you reorganise my life standing up.”
She lets me, sinking onto the cushion with a sigh that sounds like she’s been waiting all day.
“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 like you 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.
It’s a plan with moving parts.
Christa finishes the last crumpet and looks at me expectantly, like she’s waiting for a verdict.
“I’m not saying yes,” I say slowly.
She nods. “Good. I’d worry about you if you did.”
“But I’m not saying no either.”
Her shoulders ease just a fraction.
“I need to think,” I add. “About logistics. And… feelings. And how many boxes are in that room.”
She smiles. “There are always more boxes than you think.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
We sit there for a moment, the flat warm and quiet around us, the idea no longer a whirlwind but something solid, parked between us like a piece of furniture we haven’t decided where to put yet.
It’s a lot.
It feels like possibility, waiting to be handled carefully.