Chapter 21 Nice doesn’t make the Bed shake
Nice doesn’t make the Bed shake
Geoff
Sophia is lining up a dart like she means business and I am standing there pretending I haven’t just spent ten full minutes explaining to my mother why turning up unannounced before the baby arrives would, in fact, be unhelpful and possibly grounds for witness protection.
“I’m just saying,” Mum had said brightly, “I could help.”
“With what,” I’d asked.
“Everything.”
That’s not an answer.
Now, in a pub that smells faintly of beer mats and ambition, I try to re-enter the present. Sophia throws. The dart lands nowhere near the bullseye but she pumps her fist like she’s won an Olympic medal. “Yes,” she says. “Nailed it.”
I laugh despite myself. “That was… generous scoring.”
“Confidence-based darts,” she replies. “Very modern.”
This is the thing. She is fun. Easy. I like her. I am not forcing this.
We’re on our third date, which apparently involves games, laughter, and me trying to work out at what point it becomes socially acceptable to mention that I am co-parenting a not-yet-born human with the woman I live with.
Not today, I decide again. Third date feels early. First date was pub. Second date was dinner. Third date is darts. This is still light. Still exploratory. Still firmly in the before-we-unpack-anything-heavy phase.
Sophia steps aside and gestures grandly. “Your go.”
I take the dart, squint at the board, and immediately miss in a way that suggests I have never seen darts before in my life.
She laughs. “Oh wow. I thought you were underselling yourself.”
“I was,” I say. “I’m actually worse.”
She grins and nudges my arm. “Come on. Redemption throw.”
I throw again. It lands somewhere respectable enough to count.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Athletic.”
She claps. “See. Growth.”
We fall into easy banter, playful insults, exaggerated concentration. For a few minutes, my head is blissfully empty. No spreadsheets. No mums. No internal timelines labelled when do I tell her about the baby without sounding like a bomb threat.
Sophia watches me line up another throw, head tilted. “You’re very serious about this.”
“I don’t like losing,” I say.
“To me.”
“Especially to you.”
She laughs, warm and unguarded, and something in my chest loosens. This is nice. Genuinely.
Her dart wins the game by a mile. She bows dramatically. “Victory.”
I hold up my hands. “I concede. Gracefully.”
“Buy me a drink,” she says.
“Fair.”
We stand close at the bar, shoulder to shoulder, the easy proximity of people who have already decided they’re comfortable here. She tells me about a disastrous work call from earlier that day. I tell her about Thursday’s lesson and the little competition I had prepared for the kids.
“That sounds intense,” she says, laughing.
“It was character building,” I reply.
She looks at me for a moment, longer than before. Curious. Open. Not demanding.
And I think again about Christa. About Pea-Lime. About the fact that at some point, this stops being a detail I can keep in my back pocket.
Not tonight, I tell myself. Tonight is darts and laughter and a pub that doesn’t know my life.
We head back to the board for a rematch that I lose even more convincingly. Sophia is delighted. I am mocked gently and accept my fate.
When she steps closer to tease me about my terrible aim, the space between us shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough.
She looks up at me. I look down at her. There’s a pause where we both seem to decide the same thing at the same time.
We kiss.
It’s nice. Soft. Polite. No fireworks. No cinematic swoop. Just lips meeting and staying there for a moment, like we’re checking something together.
She smiles against my mouth. I smile back.
When we pull away, nothing feels wrong. Nothing feels overwhelming. It’s just… pleasant.
“Okay,” she says. “That was good.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Very civilised.”
She laughs. “You make it sound like a council meeting.”
“I aim to keep expectations realistic.”
We stand there for a second longer, then she takes my hand and tugs me back towards the table.
“Rematch,” she says. “I’m not done humiliating you.”
I follow, trying not to think too far ahead.
Third date is too soon, I remind myself. There will be a right moment.
Just not tonight.
It’s ten on the dot when I get home. I know this because the oven clock blinks accusingly at me as I open the door, like it’s been waiting to judge my life choices.
The kitchen light is on.
Christa is standing at the island in pyjamas that have seen better days, hair doing something between bedhead and electrical incident, holding a crumpet in one hand and a can of squirty cream in the other.
The crumpet is generously coated in what looks like the hazelnut chocolate spread she made me buy.
There is cream on the counter. Possibly on her sleeve. Definitely on her nose.
She freezes when she sees me.
“It’s just an experiment,” she says loudly, before I’ve even shut the door.
I pause. Take it in. The scene. The evidence. The complete lack of shame.
“Right,” I say. “Good to know.”
She points the cream can at the crumpet like it’s supporting her argument. “I’m testing flavour ratios. For science.”
I snort and lean back against the door, arms folded.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t judge me. Pea-Lime demanded innovation.”
“That tracks,” I say. “She’s clearly a visionary.”
Christa relaxes a fraction and takes a bite, spread smearing slightly at the corner of her mouth. She licks it off without thinking and I very deliberately keep my gaze on the cupboard behind her because I am a grown man with self-control.
Mostly.
She chews, then gestures at me with the crumpet. “So. How was the date.”
“Good,” I say honestly. “We played darts. She’s ruthless.”
Christa giggles, approving. “As she should be.”
I push myself off the door and toe my shoes off. “She asked me to go back to hers.”
Christa’s eyebrows lift, just a touch. “Oh.”
“And,” I add quickly, because it seems I’m incapable of telling a story without narrating my own moral stance, “I said it was fine to take things slow.”
She squints at me. “You said it like it was her idea.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Reverse psychology. Very advanced.”
She laughs, a real one, shoulders shaking slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I prefer strategic.”
She takes another bite of the crumpet, then eyes me over the top of it. “You okay with that.”
“Honestly,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, “I fear the wrath of Pee-Pee far too much to rush anything these days. That woman would dismantle me in fifty minutes flat.”
Christa snorts, chocolate spread almost coming out of her nose.
“And,” I add, because apparently we are being truthful tonight, “I’m not even convinced my dick would have played along. There wasn’t so much as a courtesy tingle. Not even a polite hello.”
She stares at me for half a second, then absolutely loses it.
“Oh my God,” she says, wheezing. “You could have kept that inside your head.”
“You asked,” I point out.
She wipes at her eyes, still laughing. “ODD needs one of my crumpet creations.”
“That sounds deeply wrong,” I chuckle.
There’s a knock on the door.
Christa looks at the crumpet. The cream. Herself. “If that’s Paul Hollywood, tell him I’m here for judgement.”
I open the door.
Sophia stands there, smiling, jacket on, hair still done, the sort of smile that says spontaneous but not unplanned. It holds for exactly one second before her gaze flicks past me.
To Christa.
To the pyjamas. The hair. The crumpet. The can of squirty cream.
“Oh,” Sophia says.
Christa lifts the crumpet slightly, like a wave. “Hi.”
I feel the temperature in the hallway drop by several degrees.
Sophia’s smile recalibrates. Polite. Careful. “Hi. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.”
“This is Christa,” I say quickly. “My… housemate. What are you doing here?” The words come out sharper than intended and I immediately regret the tone.
Sophia doesn’t comment on it. She just shifts her weight slightly, hands tucked into her coat pockets. “I thought maybe you’d want to grab a coffee. It’s still early.”
I make an awkward noise that lives somewhere between a cough and a failed vowel. Christa, bless her, takes another bite of the crumpet like she’s watching a particularly compelling documentary.
Sophia’s gaze flicks from Christa back to me, something sharpening behind her eyes. “You didn’t mention you had a housemate.”
Right. This is it. The moment. I take a breath, the kind you take before ripping off a plaster or confessing to a crime you definitely committed.
“I should have,” I say. “I wanted to. I just… third date felt too soon.”
Her brow furrows. “Too soon for what?”
“For the part where I tell you that Christa and I are having a baby together,” I say. “But we’re just friends.”
Silence.
Sophia stares at me. I stare back. The kitchen hums. Somewhere outside a car alarm goes off like it’s enjoying itself.
Then there’s a sharp hiss.
We both look at Christa.
She’s frozen mid-motion, cheeks bulging like a startled hamster, the can of squirty cream lowered slowly from her mouth. A rogue streak of cream sits at the corner of her lips.
She swallows. “Sorry. Tension response.”
Sophia blinks.
I rub a hand over my face. “I was going to tell you,” I say quickly. “I didn’t want to spring it on you. I didn’t want to make it a thing before we’d even worked out if there was a thing.”
Sophia exhales, long and slow, eyes still on me. “You live with the mother of your child.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not together.”
“No.”
“And you thought date three was too soon.”
“Yes,” I say. “In hindsight, perhaps overly optimistic.”
Christa raises a finger. “For the record, I’m not usually like this. I’m tired. And hungry. And your timing is… ambitious.”
Sophia huffs a laugh despite herself, then presses her lips together, thinking. “I appreciate the honesty,” she says finally. “Even if it’s… a lot.”
“That’s fair,” I say. “It is a lot.”
She looks at Christa. “Congratulations.”