A/N: I don't own what you recognize.

Being five years older than me, George Knightley had always been taller than me. But by the time I was in high school, I had finally accepted the fact that he would always stand at least a head taller than me. Part of this acceptance meant that I finally (at age fifteen) stopped standing on my tiptoes around him or jumping up and down in front of him in futile attempts to be taller than him.

But when I picked him at the airport on that bright June day, the sheer force of George Edward Knightley struck me. Just his mere presence struck me. I saw him before he saw me, and the sight of him overwhelmed my senses. Tall, blonde, vivid blue-gray eyes, and a warm smile that lit up his tired, thin face-it was all there in front of me for the first time in four unbelievably long months.

"Emma," he breathed. "My gosh, it is so good to see you. How are you?"

I waved my hand. I had so much I needed to tell him, but now was not the time. "I'm fine. But how are you? How was your flight? Are you tired? Do you want to go home? Am I asking too many questions?"

He laughed. "I think you are, but it's fine. I'm doing well. Now let's go home, shall we?"

"That sounds great," I replied, grabbing the handle of one of his rolling suitcases. "Follow me."

"So, Em," George began after I pulled the car out of the parking garage. "How have you been? What have you been up to in the past four months while I was gone?"

"Was it really four months?" I asked. I still hadn't figured out how to spring my pregnancy on him.

"Did it feel longer or shorter?" he teased. "Come on, Em. Fess up; you missed me, didn't you?"

I laughed. "I definitely missed you. Life was lonely without you."

"You were lonely? Where was Paul? Did you two break up again?" His voice took a warning tone on the final question.

I took a deep breath. "You could say that."

He paused. "Em, what's that supposed to mean? Did you or did you not break up with Paul?"

"Well, he broke up with me this time," I replied softly.

"It's his loss," George replied quickly. "I've been telling you this for ages. You're an amazing person, and you deserve to be with someone who appreciates you, who cares about you."

"Well, he made it pretty clear that he doesn't care about me anymore," I muttered.

"Emma Clare, what's going on?"

I sighed. "It's complicated, George. I'd rather not talk about it while I'm driving if you don't mind."

"Can we talk about it when we get home?"

I looked at his compassionate face. It was the same gentle face that had told me twenty months earlier, during a previous breakup with Paul, that if we were both still single on my thirtieth birthday (July 19, 2013, if you care) he would marry me.

"Sure, we can talk about it at home."

I managed to evade talking about "it" with George until nine-thirty that night. When we got home, he unpacked his luggage, started a load of laundry, and then collapsed for a three-hour nap. After his nap, he switched his load of laundry into the drier and found his way into my bedroom where I was reading.

"Okay, Bean, spill. What happened with Paul and why is there actual healthy food in the fridge? I know you didn't just go out and buy real food just because I was coming home."

I sighed and put down my book. "George, I need to talk to you about something serious."

He sat down on my bed. "You can tell me anything. You know that."

"I'm not sure you're going to like this one."

He shrugged. "You've told me lots of things I didn't like, and I've always survived."

"This is a little more serious than my confession that I don't understand a single thing about soccer."

George grinned. "You were nine, and I think we've cleared that one up pretty nicely. So what is going on, my friend?"

I chewed on my lip, trying to think of the right words. I'd spent most of the past two months trying to find the perfect words to say this in a way that he would understand and accept. I'd even written some down and practiced saying them in front of the mirror. But in that moment, they all fled my brain and only two words slipped from my mouth. "I'm pregnant."'

"Repeat that again, slowly and enunciate a bit more. I could have sworn you just said you were pregnant."

I sighed. "I did."

"You're pregnant?"

"I'm pregnant."

"And Paul is the father?" he asked coldly. He sat up straight and pursed his lips.

I nodded.

He clenched his jaw. "I see. So that would be why he broke up with you?"

I shrugged. "Sort of, he initially put us back on hiatus after he found your Arsenal shirt on the floor in here on Valentine's Day night."

I could have sworn that elicited a momentary smirk on George's face. "And why was it in here?"

"I might have missed you," I replied softly. "And Paul might have misread that and ended our relationship."

His visage turned cold again. "But you're pregnant?"

"Four and a half months pregnant, yeah, and he wants nothing to do with the baby or me, but I don't particularly care. I told him it's my life and my baby and if he doesn't want to be involved, then I don't need him."

"Oh, Emma," George said softly. "Why didn't you tell me before now?"

"I don't need your pity," I replied firmly. "I can take care of myself."

He scooted closer to me on the bed. "I know that full well. But we're friends. I could have been a better friend to you these past few months."

I shook my head. "I've been fine."

"Okay, Em," he replied. "But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't have to," I started.

George shook his head. "Em, you're my best friend. I'm not going to hang you out to dry. And if you want, I'm going to help you get child support out of Paul."

"George," I said. "That's really not necessary."

"Children aren't cheap," he replied.

"I know that," I replied with a sigh.

"So make him give you money. It's his kid too."

"But I don't want him involved my baby's life," I protested, putting a hand on the soft swell of my stomach.

George sighed. "Em, I get that. But it's his kid too. He should have to bear some consequences for his actions. It's not like he's poor and he can't afford to do this. Last time I checked, Paul Churchill was plenty loaded."

"He told me he wanted out of all responsibility."

"And you're just going to let him get away with that?"

I sighed and threw myself back against my pillows. "George, I'm exhausted. And you just got home from England. You don't have to solve all of my problems in one day."

"You're my best friend, and I was gone for almost five months. I'm trying to help you."

"Then support me," I replied from my nest of pillows. "Hold my hand and listen to me whine. Please don't stat trying to fix my problems right away."

He sighed and squeezed my hand. "I'm sorry, Em."

I smiled weakly. "I know you are. But I need you to be patient with me right now."

"I'll try. But you know that I hate Paul. This isn't going to make any of this easier for me."

I laughed. "Please don't kill him, George. Please don't. I don't know what I'd do if you ended up in jail."

He laughed and lay down next to me. "Em, I'll do anything you want me to do and be there for you as much as you need me to be."

"Just be my friend," I said softly.

He kissed my cheek. "Always, Emma, I'll always be your friend."

A/N: Please review!