The air in the kitchen felt too still. Even the dust in the sunbeams seemed to hover in place, waiting for someone to breathe first.

Henry sat at the edge of the worn-out dining chair like it offended him. Legs crossed too tightly. Pale hands folded. His tie was still knotted even though it was Sunday. His coffee had gone cold.

You were slicing peaches.

Peaches. The irony didn't escape him—he'd once read somewhere that pregnant women craved fruit like it was salvation. And here you were: the woman who curled herself into his chest like an animal one night and dropped a bomb into his lap the next morning with peach juice on your lip.

"I'm not asking for anything," you'd said last night. "Just telling you."

He hadn't said anything. Not then. Not when you left his bed for the couch. Not when the only thing between you both was a thin wall and the ghost of your confession.

But now—

“You slice fruit like it’s a battle,” he said, voice soft but sandpaper-dry. “It’s...aggressive.”

You raised a brow. "You’re not the one eating it."

Silence.

He studied your form—your wide hips in black pants, your messy hair, the slight curve of your stomach already blooming under the dark tank top. You hadn’t tried to soften it. No apology in your posture. And still, something about you made him feel like he was the one being examined.

Henry reached into his pocket and clicked his lighter once, twice.

No flame.

He didn’t even smoke. Not really.

You didn’t comment. You never did when he did this. Which somehow made it worse. Kinder.

He stared at the lighter a second longer before placing it down beside the butter dish.

“I dreamt of my father last night,” he said suddenly. The words escaped like a confession in church, but his voice was too calm for religion. “He was building a greenhouse. Out of marble. For orchids.”

You blinked. “That’s...a lot of commitment for a plant.”

“Exactly.” His tone thinned with bitterness. “He never bought my mother flowers. Never said her name out loud after she left. But in the dream—he was gentle. Hands in soil. Whispering.”

You turned off the stove. Waited.

“I think I’m terrified,” Henry finally admitted, “that I’ll only know how to be tender in dreams.”

You leaned against the counter, arms folded. You were quiet. Which was unusual.

“You don’t have to be tender,” you said. “Just don’t be your father.”

Henry stared at you like you’d struck something sacred in him. And then, slowly, he stood.

He crossed the room with a stiffness that betrayed his nerves. He stopped just in front of you—not touching. Looking.

“I don’t know how to be with a child,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with...little things. With noise. I never had that. I barely know how to hold you right. I don’t know how not to...withdraw.”

You tilted your chin up, sharp little stare, smirking slightly. “So what? You think I do? I teach kids. I still ask neighbours how to boil rice.”

His mouth twitched. A half-smile. Gone quickly.

You stepped forward. Pressed a hand to his chest. “We’ll both screw up. But at least we’ll be there. That’s already more than most kids get.”

Henry swallowed. You felt it—the way his body tensed. His hands hovered near your arms, not touching, like he was afraid you’d burn him.

And then, finally, he placed a hand over yours.

Soft. Awkward. Gentle.

“I bought a cot,” he murmured. “Last week. It’s in Missouri. In storage. I didn’t—know if I’d ever...need it.”

You blinked.

“You bought a cot?”

“It’s ugly. Victorian. Probably impractical. I liked the wood.” He paused. “I wanted something permanent.”

You didn’t say anything. Just smiled faintly.

The stick insect crawled across the window sill behind you both, silent witness to an unspoken truce.