Chapter 16
Goblin-approved Escape Plan
Geoff
Iwake up before my alarm and lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, listening.
The flat sounds different.
Not louder. Not busier. Just… occupied. Like it’s aware it’s hosting more life than usual and is trying not to make a fuss about it.
I get up quietly and head into the kitchen, still half-expecting to trip over boxes or a suitcase. The island is clear. The kettle fills. Muscle memory kicks in. It’s comforting, having something simple to do with my hands.
I’m reaching for the mugs when movement catches my eye.
Christa shuffles into view from the spare room, socked feet dragging slightly like the floor has personally offended her.
Her dark hair is everywhere, a determined halo that suggests sleep was optional.
Her face is bare. No eyeliner. No armour.
Just her, blinking against the light like she’s negotiating with the morning.
She’s wearing fluffy pyjamas that look aggressively soft.
Something in my chest tilts.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice low like the day might spook her.
She squints at me. “Is it too early to be alive?”
“Debatable,” I reply. “Do you want breakfast?”
“I can make my own,” she says automatically, even as she leans one hand on the counter like standing is a group effort.
“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?
“Our child 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?”
“You told me,” she replies. “Yesterday.”
“Oh.” I pause. “Right. Yes. I did.”
She takes another bite of crumpet, chewing thoughtfully. “What do you know about her?”
“Her name is Sophia,” I say. “She likes hiking. She has strong opinions about sourdough. And she agreed to meet me in a pub.”
Christa stares at me.
“That’s it,” she says.
“That is literally everything the app has revealed.”
She sets her mug down with care. Too much care. I recognise this posture. This is the posture she uses before dismantling a system.
“Okay,” she says. “We need to talk.”
I raise an eyebrow. “About sourdough.”
“About dating,” she corrects. “You are not going into this blind.”
“I’m not blind,” I protest. “I have eyes. And conversational skills.”
She gives me a look. “Right. First of all. You are meeting her at a pub. Good. Neutral territory. Sit somewhere you can actually hear each other and do not, under any circumstances, position yourself directly under a television.”
“Why?”
“Because football will happen to you,” she says grimly.
I nod, filing that away.
“Second,” she continues, “ask questions. Real ones. Not interview questions. If she says she likes hiking, don’t ask how often. Ask where. Or why. Or what she hates about it.”
“What if she loves everything about it?”
“Red flag,” Christa says immediately. “No one loves everything.”
I bite back a smile.
“And third,” she adds, leaning forward slightly, “you are not allowed to pre-emptively lower expectations.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do,” she says. “No ‘I’m terrible at this’ jokes. No ‘I don’t usually date’ disclaimers. No tragic backstory about ODD unless explicitly invited.”
I sigh. “You’re very bossy in the mornings.”
“I’m efficient,” she replies. “There’s a difference.”
She picks up another strawberry, then pauses. “Also. One drink. Maybe two. You’re charming when relaxed. You’re rambling when nervous.”
“That feels personal.”
“It is,” she says cheerfully.
I watch her for a moment. Hair still wild. Pyjamas ridiculous. Completely in her element while instructing me on how not to sabotage myself.
“And, if it goes well,” she adds lightly, “you say goodnight. You do not linger. You do not overthink. You do not invite anyone anywhere.”
“The bedroom ban,” I say.
She grins. “See? You are learning.”
I shake my head, laughing. “What would I do without you?”
She shrugs, suddenly softer. “Make terrible mistakes.”
I hesitate, then scratch the back of my neck. “Right. Hypothetical.”
Her eyes narrow. “I love a hypothetical.”
“What if,” I say carefully, “Sophia asks me back to hers. Or suggests… continuing the evening.”
Christa stares at me for a beat, then snorts. “Oh, bless you.”
“What?”
“Women rarely do that,” she says. “Not on a first date. Not unless they’re very sure or very bold or very done with subtlety.”
“So I’m safe.”
“Statistically,” she says. “Yes.”
“And if she does?”
Christa brightens in a way that makes me immediately regret asking. “Excellent. Then you deploy an exit strategy.”
“An exit strategy.”
“Yes. You do not say anything about therapy or bans or personal growth. You simply lie.”
“I’m not great at lying.”
“You are about to be coached,” she says, sitting up straighter. “Option one. You have an early start. Important. Vague. No follow-up questions.”
“That feels weak.”
“Fine. Option two. You’ve eaten something dodgy.”
I grimace. “That’s unromantic.”
“It’s effective,” she counters. “Option three. You suddenly remember you left the oven on.”
“I don’t cook.”
“Not the point.”
I laugh. “These are terrible.”
“They are foolproof,” she says. “If all else fails, you can say you live with a pregnant woman and it feels complicated.”
I choke. “Absolutely not.”
“Worth a try,” she says lightly.
I lean against the counter, grinning at her. “You realise how ridiculous this sounds.”
“Yes,” she replies. “That’s why it works.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “I can’t believe you’re my dating coach.”
She smirks. “I can. I’m excellent at logistics and emotional crowd control.”
That sets us both off.
I head towards the bedroom, still chuckling, thinking that, whatever happens tonight, at least I’ll have a good story.
And a goblin-approved escape plan.