Chapter 25
Comfortable vs Dependable
Christa
The utility cupboard is not big enough for two adults, one washing machine, and a developing sense of domestic intimacy.
And yet. Here we are.
It sits off the kitchen, door permanently half open because shutting it feels like a personal attack. The washing machine hums with quiet authority. Two laundry baskets sit on the floor, touching. I do not acknowledge this.
“We need to establish boundaries,” I say, wedged between the counter and the doorframe.
Geoff peers into the nearest basket. “They’re just clothes.”
“They’re separate clothes.”
He reaches in and pulls something out.
“Oh,” he says. “Hello.”
It’s one of my bras. Sensible. Beige. Engineered.
I snatch it back. “Do not inspect the infrastructure.”
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You were evaluating.”
“Structurally,” he says. “It looks dependable.”
“That bra has survived a broken engagement and a wedding in heels,” I reply. “Put it down.”
He does. Carefully. “Veteran status.”
He reaches in again and comes up with my knickers. Black. High-waisted. Entirely unapologetic.
He nods. “These say ‘I know who I am.’”
“They say ‘multipack’,” I counter. “And comfort.”
“Still. Strong presence.”
I retaliate by grabbing something from his basket.
Grey boxers. Soft. Well worn. Possibly sentient.
I hold them up. “Right. These need addressing.”
He squints. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They look like they sigh.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’ve emotionally retired.”
He laughs. “You are not ranking my pants.”
“I am absolutely ranking your pants.”
I toss them aside and dig again.
Navy boxers. Better. Respectable.
“These are middle management,” I say. “Dependable. No flair.”
He shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
I find another pair. Black. New. Suspiciously crisp.
I pause.
“Oh.”
He grins. “Ah.”
“These are trying.”
“I wear those on dates.”
I freeze. “You what.”
He shrugs. “Bedroom ban doesn’t apply to underwear.”
I fling them at his chest. “They are banned from the shared wash.”
He catches them, laughing. “You started this.”
We’re standing too close now. Socks on the floor. Machine door open. The sort of proximity that sneaks up on you.
He leans past me to load the washer and I notice, with quiet alarm, that he sorts colours without prompting.
“That’s upsetting,” I say.
“It’s basic decency.”
I grab a T-shirt from my pile. Grey. Soft. Very clearly his.
It’s enormous on me. Hangs off one shoulder.
Reaches mid-thigh. Completely impractical and yet somehow perfect.
It smells like him, faintly, which is ridiculous but also…
helpful. There’s something grounding about it at night when my brain decides sleep is optional and panic is a hobby.
I hadn’t planned on that becoming a thing. It just sort of happened.
I hold it up.
He looks at it. “That’s mine.”
“Was,” I say. “It’s been promoted.”
He studies it, then me. “You wear that?”
“I sleep in it. Sometimes,” I say lightly. “It’s efficient.”
He snorts. “You’ll have to steal another one. That’s going in the wash.”
I feel an entirely unnecessary flicker of annoyance. “I will.”
Good ones are hard to come by. This one smells right. I’ll need a replacement. I make a mental note to conduct a drawer raid later.
We load the machine together, elbows bumping, movements far too coordinated for two people insisting this is temporary.
I slam the door shut.
“There… domestic,” I say. as we head back out to the kitchen.
He leans against the fridge. “Should we be concerned that this feels normal?”
“Yes,” I say instantly. “Very.”
The machine starts its cycle, a low hum coming from the utility room.
He glances at me. “For what it’s worth, your underwear ranks highly.”
“Ranks.”
“Consistent. Confident. Strong showing.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, “here we are. Ranking pants in my utility cupboard.”
I look at the open door to the small room. Back at him. Then at the sock on the floor neither of us picks up.
I absolutely refuse to think about any of it.
Instead, I point at the dials. “If you shrink my clothes, I will never forgive you.”
He raises his hands. “Gentle cycle only.”
The living room smells faintly of fabric softener and garlic. That’s a sentence that should not exist and yet somehow works.
We’re on the sofa with a polite cushion buffer that neither of us believes in. The telly is on some home improvement show where a man in suspiciously clean boots is explaining why knocking down a perfectly good wall will improve the flow.
“It’s always about flow,” I mutter.
Geoff hums in agreement, eyes on the screen. “If anyone ever suggests improving the flow of this flat, I’m moving out.”
“They’ll take the wall behind the fridge,” I say. “It’s always the fridge wall.”
On screen, the wall comes down. Everyone cheers. The dust is aggressive.
Geoff shifts slightly, then says, very casually, “I’ve been thinking about doing my teacher training.”
I blink. “Sorry, what?”
He glances at me, then back at the telly, like he’s just commented on the weather. “Training to be a teacher.”
I sit up a bit. The cushion buffer slides away traitorously. “Since when?”
“Since the workshop,” he says. “At Declan’s school. I’m nearly at the end of it.”
“The one you said was just a favour.”
“It was,” he replies. “Turns out I really enjoyed it.”
I study him more carefully. He’s relaxed. Not performing. Not joking his way out of it.
“And,” he adds, still far too calm, “I think I’m actually quite good.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “Yeah. I can see that.”
He looks at me then, surprised in a small, pleased way, like he hadn’t expected that to land so easily.
“It would mean going back to uni,” he says. “For a year. Add a teaching qualification.”
“That’s… big,” I say.
“Mm. But manageable. I don’t need full-time work. Just something that feels like it matters.”
I nod slowly. On screen, someone is arguing about tiles.
“What would you teach?” I ask.
“Photography,” he says, immediately. “Schools offer BTECs now. Actual courses. Not just ‘take a nice picture of a leaf’.”
I laugh. “Devastating for leaf photography.”
“They’d cope,” he says. “And it makes sense. I know the industry. I know how brutal it can be. I could teach them how not to get eaten alive.”
“That sounds very you,” I say. “Practical optimism.”
He grins. “High praise.”
The presenter announces a budget overrun. No one is surprised.
I lean back, the sofa dipping slightly under my weight, and something settles. Not loudly. Just enough to notice.
“That’s exciting,” I say.
“Terrifying,” he counters. “But good terrifying.” “And,” he adds carefully, eyes still on the telly like it’s providing moral support, “if I only did a few hours a week teaching, I could be around the rest of the time.”
I turn my head. Slowly. Like I’m approaching a suspicious noise.
“Around,” I repeat.
“For her,” he says. “Looking after her. Daytime stuff. Feeds. Walks. Naps. The glamorous bits.”
My brain stalls.
He keeps going, still maddeningly calm. “You’ve got your goblin jobs. They don’t stick to office hours. So we could… arrange it. You’re home when I’m at school. I’m home when you’re working. Tag-team it.”
He finally looks at me, tentative but steady. “If that works for you. Obviously. Just an idea.”
On screen, someone reveals a kitchen island and cries. I feel dangerously close to joining them.
“That’s,” I start, then stop because my mouth has decided to betray me. “That’s a lot of thinking.”
“I’ve had some practice,” he says lightly. “I’m very good at thinking quietly.”
I stare at him. At the man who sorts laundry without being asked. Who brings decaf tea and apologises. Who is now casually discussing childcare like it’s just another logistical puzzle.
This is commitment. Not loud. Not dramatic. The practical kind that turns up with a plan and a calendar.
My chest does an entirely unnecessary little swoop.
“That’s… generous,” I manage.
He frowns. “I wasn’t aiming for generous. More… workable.”
“It’s still a lot,” I say, because my brain is scrambling. “You’re talking about reshaping your life.”
He shrugs. “It already is.”
That lands harder than it should.
Inside, a small, traitorous part of me is swooning. Sensibly. With spreadsheets.
Outwardly, I keep it together. Mostly.
I clear my throat. Because apparently that’s what I do now when feelings try to unionise.
“So,” I say lightly, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near controlled detonation, “what happened to the rugby-playing jetsetter who swanned about the world being cocky and allergic to commitment?”
He huffs out a laugh, eyes still on the telly where someone is sanding something unnecessarily. “Ah. Him.”
“Yes. Him,” I say. “The man who treated long-term plans like a suspicious rash.”
He exhales, slow, eyes still on the telly like the answer might be hidden behind a man arguing about grout.
“I was already stepping off,” he says. “You know that.”
I nod. My gaze stays on the screen, but my attention is fully on him.
“I’d started saying no,” he adds. “Quietly. Less running. Less booking things just because I could.”
He rubs a hand over his face, half-smile, half-resignation. “My body helped underline the point.”
I snort. “Your dick filed a formal complaint.”
“Immediate strike action,” he says. “Very clear feedback.”
I laugh, because that part is familiar and safe.
“And then Pea-Lime,” he says, more softly, careful with the word like it matters, “made it obvious I wasn’t wrong to slow down.”
My chest tightens, warm and inconvenient.
“She’s not here yet,” he continues, “but she’s already part of the picture. And so are you. That didn’t start with her.”
There it is. Quiet. Unshowy. Completely unfair.
I tell myself the sudden rush of feeling is hormones. Pregnancy is basically one long science experiment and I am the lab rat. That’s the only explanation. Definitely not the man beside me calmly including me in his future like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“So, whatever comes next,” he says, finally looking at me, “it gets run past you. Both of you. That’s just how I think now.”
“That’s,” I say, aiming for breezy and missing, “a lot of consideration.”
He shrugs. “Feels basic.”
My heart does something unprofessional.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He smiles. “Don’t what?”
“Be sensible and kind in the same breath,” I say. “It’s deeply unfair when talking to a hormonal pregnant lady.”
He laughs, proper and warm, then leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead. Quick. Easy. Like it’s muscle memory.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll try to be more inconsiderate.”
“Too late,” I reply. “Damage done.”
He pulls back, eyes flicking to my face. “Do you want some of that fruit salad I made earlier? It’s still in the fridge.”
I pull a face immediately. “I want to want fruit salad.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s aspirational,” I say. “In theory, fruit salad is a good life choice.”
He snorts. “You were the one who insisted we buy five kinds of melon.”
“Past Christa was optimistic,” I say. “Present Christa is tired and suspicious.”
He tilts his head, considering me like this is a negotiation he intends to win. “What if I made you a crumpet as well?”
I narrow my eyes. “With butter.”
“Yes.”
“Properly buttered.”
“Obviously.”
“And not that sad scraping where you can still see the holes.”
He holds up a hand. “I am not a monster.”
I pretend to think about it, even though my stomach has already made its position very clear.
“Alright,” I say. “But I’m only eating the fruit salad if the crumpet is hot.”
“Deal.”
“And, if I don’t finish it, you’re not allowed to comment.”
“I would never,” he says solemnly.
He heads for the kitchen and I sink back into the sofa, grinning despite myself. From the other room, I hear the familiar sounds of domestic effort. Fridge opening. Toaster clicking down. A muttered swear word when the butter turns out to be harder than anticipated.
This is ridiculous. We are negotiating snacks like this is a long-established routine.
He comes back balancing a plate and a bowl, triumphant.
“See,” he says, handing them over. “Balanced meal.”
I take a bite of the crumpet first. Obviously. Butter everywhere. Immediate satisfaction.
“Fine,” I concede, reaching for the fruit salad. “You win this round.”
He grins and drops back onto the sofa beside me, shoulder brushing mine.
I absolutely do not think about how normal this feels.
I eat my fruit. I eat my crumpet.
And I let him stay right where he is.