For three years, Ryan Cole had been the clean line in Clare Wittmann’s chaos.

He arrived at 8:30 a.m. like a metronome, jacket folded over the chair, sleeves rolled to the precise point that made him look ready to work but not eager to impress. His desk outside her office was a small kingdom of order: one monitor tilted to the perfect angle, a leather notebook always open to the day’s plan, and a coffee mug that read WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD in chipped white letters that had survived at least one dishwasher war.

Clare told herself she liked the desk because it made her efficient.

The truth was simpler and far less flattering: she liked it because it made her feel safe.

In a company worth several hundred million, safety was a rare currency. There were always sharks in tailored suits, always investors who smiled like they were counting your bones, always board members who called “concern” a virtue when it was really just fear dressed up in expensive cologne.

Ryan had never smelled like fear.

He smelled like coffee and clean laundry and something faintly sweet, as if there were always a kid’s snack living in the pockets of his life.

Clare remembered his interview as clearly as she remembered the day she signed the first funding round. He’d walked in with a charcoal suit that fit well without boasting. No flashy tie. No over-polished shoes. A resume with strong lines, clean dates, impeccable references, and one gap he didn’t try to hide.

He’d sat down, hands relaxed, eyes steady.

Clare had given him her hardest question on purpose. She wanted to watch him break. She wanted to see if he’d crack into excuses or theatrics the moment pressure found him.

“What do you do,” she’d asked, “if I give you two impossible tasks at the same time?”

Ryan had paused, not because he was searching for an answer, but because he was choosing one.

“I’d ask which one matters more to you,” he said. “Then I’d do that one first. And I’d start solving the second immediately after.”

No panic. No bravado. No promise to do both perfectly because some people thought confidence was a substitute for physics.

Just logic and honesty.

It was, Clare realized later, exactly the kind of answer you give when you’re used to triage. When you’ve had a child with a fever at 2:00 a.m. and a rent bill due in the morning and a boss who expects a report by nine.

Clare hired him that day.

Then, without meaning to, she built a dependence around him like ivy around a steel frame.

Ryan learned her coffee order: black, but with a thin slice of lemon on days when her stomach was tight from stress. He learned that she hated small talk but appreciated a single sentence of truth. He learned when to knock and when to pretend he hadn’t seen her staring at the city like it was trying to insult her.

He managed her calendar like it was a living creature that needed firm hands and a gentle voice.

And Clare, who had built her entire career on discipline and control, let herself believe this was all perfectly professional.

After all, she didn’t ask about his life outside the office.

She knew he had a son. A framed photo sat on Ryan’s desk: a small boy with messy brown hair and a grin large enough to look illegal, holding up a baseball glove like a trophy. Clare knew Ryan left at 5:30 every day, no exceptions, not even when she stayed until midnight preparing for a board meeting with men who thought a woman CEO was a glitch in the system.

She assumed 5:30 belonged to the boy.

She assumed the boy belonged to someone else, too, because that was how life worked.

And because she didn’t let herself wonder. Wondering was the first crack in the dam.

Clare had learned early that feelings were distractions.

Distractions led to mistakes.

Mistakes got you eaten alive.

She’d watched colleagues dissolve into office romances, into whispered secrets and messy breakups that turned meetings into minefields. She had sworn she would never be that person. The one who risked the company’s pulse for a flutter in her chest.

So she kept boundaries.

She kept them so well she could have sold them as a subscription service.

But boundaries can be walls, and walls can become cages, and cages can start to feel like home if you stay long enough.

The shift began small, like a fault line you didn’t notice until it swallowed the road.

A flicker of irritation when Ryan mentioned he had plans over the weekend.

A strange emptiness on the rare day he called in sick.

A tightness in her chest when she imagined him sitting across from someone else at dinner, laughing the way he sometimes did when they worked late, the kind of laugh that made the office feel less like a battlefield and more like somewhere you could breathe.

She told herself it was nothing.

She told herself it would pass.

It didn’t.

Then came Thursday.

Thursday was merger day, the kind of day that left your brain feeling like it had been used as a stress ball by the universe. Clare spent the afternoon in back-to-back meetings, navigating a negotiation that had turned messy by the hour. Ryan was there through all of it, taking notes, smoothing logistics, anticipating needs before they formed into requests.

By late afternoon, the deal finally moved forward.

Clare leaned back in her chair and let candor slip through her usual armor.

“Thank God that’s over,” she said.

Ryan looked up from his tablet and smiled. Not his polite professional smile. The real one. The kind that reached his eyes and made the room feel warmer.

“You handled it perfectly,” he said, like it was a fact, not a compliment.

Something fluttered in Clare’s chest. She looked away, pretending to check her phone as if emails could explain why her heart had suddenly become uncooperative.

That was when Ryan glanced at his watch.

It was 4:15.

He closed his tablet and stood, reaching for his jacket.

Clare blinked.

Ryan never left early. Not once in three years. Not for illness, not for emergencies, not even for half a day off. He never left before her, and she rarely left before six.

“I need to leave early,” Ryan said.

Clare waited for the reason. A doctor’s appointment. A family emergency. A flat tire. Something that fit the neat categories she used to understand the world.

Ryan met her eyes with the same composed expression he wore during board fights and crisis calls.

“I have a date.”

The words hit Clare like a door slamming inside her chest.

A date.

Ryan Cole. Her executive secretary. The man who sat outside her office every single day. Who knew her schedule better than she did. Who had never mentioned anyone in his life beyond his son.

Had a date.

With someone who wasn’t her.

“A date?” Clare repeated, and her voice sounded wrong even to herself, like it belonged to a different woman. A woman who made bad decisions.

Ryan nodded, slipping on his jacket as if he were discussing printer toner.

“Yes. I’m sorry for the short notice. I cleared your schedule for the rest of the day, and I forwarded any urgent calls to my cell. You shouldn’t need anything before tomorrow.”

He said it casually, as if he hadn’t just pulled a thread that was unraveling something Clare hadn’t admitted existed.

She wanted to ask: Who is it? Where are you going? How long has this been planned? How long have you been laughing with someone else while I sat behind glass and called it professionalism?

But the questions tangled in her throat.

What came out instead was something raw and catastrophic.

Because when Ryan turned toward the door, something inside Clare snapped like an overstretched rubber band.

Her hand shot out.

She caught his wrist.

Ryan stopped.

He looked down at her fingers on his sleeve, then back up at her face. His eyes widened slightly, the first sign of surprise Clare had ever seen on him.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Clare didn’t know what she was doing. She only knew she couldn’t let him walk out that door without saying something that might stop the panic blooming in her ribcage.

“Why didn’t you date me?” she blurted.

The question came out unfiltered. Nothing like the composed tone she used in boardrooms. It was vulnerable. It was desperate.

It was everything she had spent her career avoiding.

Ryan stared at her.

For a moment, the office fell into a stillness so complete Clare could hear the hum of the air-conditioning, the distant traffic, the tiny buzz of her computer trying to pretend it mattered.

“Clare,” Ryan said softly.

The way he said her name hit her like a small electric shock.

She realized she was still holding his wrist and released him like his skin had burned her.

But she didn’t look away.

“I mean it,” Clare said. Her voice steadied, even though her hands shook. “I’ve liked you for a long time. I never said anything because I thought you weren’t interested. Or maybe because I was too proud to risk it.” She swallowed, forcing the words out. “But if you’re going out with someone else, I need to know. I need to know if I missed my chance.”

Ryan’s lips curved, but the smile was small and sad, as if he were looking at a version of Clare he’d always suspected existed and never expected to meet.

He set his bag down on his desk.

Then he turned to face her fully.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Ryan said gently. “And this isn’t what you think it is.”

Clare frowned, her mind scrambling.

“Then what is it?” she asked.

Ryan stared at her for a long moment, as if weighing something careful and fragile.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

He tapped the screen and held it up.

A text message.

The contact name at the top read: Ethan.

Clare’s eyes scanned the message.

Dad, are you still coming at 5? I picked the restaurant. You’re going to love it.

There was a photo attached: a little boy holding up a hand-drawn menu with wobbly letters and a dinosaur doodle in the corner.

Clare felt the air leave her lungs.

Ryan’s smile softened.

“My date,” he said quietly, “is with my son. It’s his birthday dinner. He’s been planning it for two weeks.”

Relief crashed into Clare so hard it almost made her dizzy.

Then embarrassment followed like a second wave.

And beneath those, something else, deeper, heavier.

Guilt.

Because she had worked beside this man for three years, relied on him, watched him carry her chaos with steady hands, and she had never asked about the most important person in his world.

“I didn’t know,” she managed.

Ryan’s expression stayed kind but guarded.

“You never asked,” he said, not accusing, just stating a fact the way he did everything.

Clare’s cheeks burned.

He was right.

Ryan picked up his bag again, but instead of leaving, he paused.

Then he looked at her with something like hope.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asked.

Clare blinked.

“To your son’s birthday dinner?” she repeated, incredulous.

Ryan nodded. “He’s seven. He likes dinosaurs, mac and cheese, and asking a million questions about everything.” His voice softened when he said it, as if the words were a door opening. “He’s been asking me for months if I have anyone special in my life.”

Clare’s heart punched against her ribs.

This was insane.

She had just confessed feelings to her executive secretary, nearly detonated her professional life, and now he was inviting her into the most important part of his personal life.

But Ryan’s patience wasn’t just professional.

It was the kind of patience you develop when you’ve learned to love someone small who needs you to be steady even when the world is loud.

Clare looked at him, really looked.

And realized she didn’t want to let this moment slip away. Not again. Not after three years of pretending she didn’t care.

“Okay,” she said.

Ryan’s smile widened, brighter now, less sad.

“Let’s go,” he said, and held the door open for her.

In the elevator down to the lobby, silence settled between them like a blanket. Clare stood beside Ryan, arms crossed loosely, mind spinning.

She had grabbed his wrist like a melodrama. She had confessed feelings like a teenager. She was going to meet a seven-year-old boy at a restaurant she’d never heard of.

She should have felt ridiculous.

Instead, she felt something else.

Fear, yes.

But also… possibility.

In the parking garage, Ryan led her to a modest sedan. Clean, well-used. Practical. The kind of car that said: I don’t buy status, I buy groceries. I don’t need to impress strangers, I need to keep my kid safe.

Clare realized she had never thought about what Ryan drove.

She had never thought about where he lived, what he ate, how he spent his evenings after 5:30.

She had never thought about him outside her orbit, because her orbit had always been the only one she trusted.

Ryan opened the passenger door for her. Clare hesitated, then slid in.

The interior smelled faintly of coffee and something sweet. A booster seat sat in the back. A stuffed dinosaur was wedged into the cup holder like it was guarding the car. Coloring books lay scattered on the floor.

It hit Clare harder than any boardroom argument.

This wasn’t a secret life.

It was a life she had ignored.

They pulled out of the garage into late afternoon sunlight.

Clare stared out the window, then finally forced words past her pride.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Ryan glanced at her. “For what?”

“For… putting you in an awkward position. For assuming things I had no right to assume. For making this weird.”

Ryan was quiet for a moment, hands steady on the wheel.

“You didn’t make anything weird,” he said. “You were honest.”

Clare swallowed. “I still shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“Clare,” Ryan said, and there was something almost amused in his tone, “you’re allowed to have feelings. You’re allowed to say them out loud. I’m not upset.”

“You’re not?” she asked, suspicion and hope tangled in the same breath.

“No,” he said. “Surprised, maybe. Not upset.” He glanced at her again, expression softer. “Honestly, I thought you saw me as just another employee. Someone useful but replaceable. I never imagined you felt anything beyond professional respect.”

The words landed with a quiet cruelty.

Because Clare realized, suddenly, that her walls hadn’t protected her. They had hurt someone else.

“You’re not replaceable,” she said quietly.

Ryan’s lips twitched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned onto a side street lined with small shops and warm-looking restaurants. Neighborhood life. The kind of place Clare rarely visited, because her life existed mostly in glass towers and conference rooms.

They parked in front of a family-style Italian restaurant with red-checkered curtains and a hand-painted sign: Marello’s.

Cozy. Unpretentious. The kind of place where kids could be loud and no one would act offended.

Ryan turned off the engine but didn’t move to get out.

Before we go in, he seemed to gather his thoughts and then said, “I need you to understand something.”

Clare turned to face him fully.

“Okay.”

Ryan’s expression was open but cautious, like a door cracked instead of thrown wide.

“Ethan is the most important person in my life,” he said. “Everything I do, every decision I make, it’s for him. And I’m careful about who I bring into his world.” His voice sharpened slightly on the last part, not with anger, but with protectiveness. “I don’t want him getting attached to someone who won’t stick around.”

There it was.

The real risk.

Not the office gossip, not the HR nightmare, not the board’s disapproval.

A little boy who deserved stability.

Clare nodded slowly.

“I understand,” she said, and she meant it.

Ryan studied her for a heartbeat longer, then nodded once, as if accepting her answer for now. He opened his door.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

Inside, the smell of garlic and fresh bread wrapped around them. The restaurant was bustling with families. Laughter, clinking silverware, the chaos of normal life.

Ryan scanned the room and then smiled.

Not his professional smile.

His whole face lit up, like someone had turned on a light inside him.

He lifted his hand in a wave.

Clare followed his gaze to a corner booth where a small boy was bouncing in his seat, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Dad!” the boy shouted, loud enough that a few tables glanced over.

Ryan laughed and ruffled his son’s hair. “Hey, buddy. Happy birthday.”

Ethan beamed, then his eyes locked on Clare. His expression shifted into pure curiosity, the kind that has no filter and no fear.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Ryan glanced back at Clare, and Clare saw something she had never noticed before: uncertainty. A flicker. Gone quickly, replaced by steadiness.

“This is Clare,” Ryan said, gesturing for her to come closer. “She works with me. I invited her to join us for dinner. Is that okay?”

Ethan looked Clare up and down as if she were a new kind of dinosaur he needed to classify.

Then he shrugged and grinned.

“Sure,” he said. “Do you like dinosaurs?”

Clare blinked, caught off guard.

She glanced at Ryan, who was trying not to smile.

“I think they’re pretty cool,” she said.

To her surprise, she meant it.

Ethan’s grin widened like someone had handed him a victory flag.

“Good,” he said. “Because I know everything about them.” He leaned forward, eyes bright. “Did you know a T-Rex could bite with a force of twelve thousand eight hundred pounds? That’s like getting squished by three cars at once.”

Clare raised her eyebrows, genuinely impressed.

“I did not know that.”

Ethan nodded proudly, launching into Velociraptors, herbivores versus carnivores, and a detailed explanation of why the movie version of dinosaurs was “cool but also wrong.”

Ryan slid into the booth across from Ethan. Clare hesitated, then sat beside Ryan. The vinyl seat was cracked, the table slightly sticky.

None of it mattered.

Ethan talked with his hands, spaghetti facts flying faster than noodles. Ryan listened with the patience of a man who had turned bedtime stories into a sacred ritual, nodding, asking questions, laughing at the right moments.

Clare watched them, and something shifted inside her chest.

She had spent so long thinking of Ryan as her assistant, a function in her day, that she had never fully considered the father he was.

Here, Ryan wasn’t the calm desk outside her office.

He was the calm center of someone’s world.

A waitress came by. Ethan ordered spaghetti and meatballs with extra cheese. Ryan ordered the same. Clare chose something simple, not wanting to draw attention.

When the waitress left, Ethan turned his gaze back to Clare with the intensity of a tiny interrogator.

“So,” he said, “are you my dad’s boss?”

Clare hesitated. Technically yes, but the word felt too sharp, too heavy, too wrong for this booth full of warmth.

“I guess you could say that,” she said carefully.

Ethan frowned. “Do you make him work really late?”

The question cut clean.

Clare thought about the late nights, the crisis calls, the times she’d leaned on Ryan like he was a pillar that would never crumble.

She felt guilt twist in her stomach.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But your dad is really good at what he does. I rely on him a lot.”

Ethan considered that, then nodded like a judge delivering a verdict.

“He’s the best,” he said. “He makes really good pancakes, and he always helps me with my homework even when I don’t want to do it.”

Ryan laughed softly, reaching over to ruffle his son’s hair.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Ethan leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal state secrets.

“Dad,” he whispered, eyes darting between Ryan and Clare, “did you find me a mom?”

Clare’s face went hot. She suddenly became deeply fascinated by her napkin.

Ryan didn’t miss a beat.

“Ethan,” he said gently, “that’s not really how it works.”

Ethan frowned. “But you said you were going on a date. Dates are for finding someone to marry, right?”

Ryan sighed, cheeks faintly pink.

“Not all dates are like that, bud. And this wasn’t that kind of date anyway.” He nodded toward Ethan’s plate. “This was a date with you. Remember? Your birthday dinner.”

Ethan’s face lit back up, awkwardness forgotten in a blink.

“Oh yeah!” he said. “I almost forgot. Can I get cake after with the candles that don’t blow out?”

Ryan smiled, relief flickering. “We’ll see.”

Across the table, Clare looked up and caught Ryan’s eyes.

Something unspoken passed between them. A question. A warning. A hope.

Then the food arrived and Ethan dove into his spaghetti like it was a competitive sport.

The evening unfolded like a story Clare didn’t know she’d been starving for.

Ethan talked about school and baseball practice and a video game where you rescue aliens from evil robots. Ryan listened, patient, occasionally interjecting, occasionally reminding Ethan to drink water, occasionally wiping sauce off his face with the practiced ease of someone who loved without needing applause.

Clare chimed in when Ethan asked her questions. She laughed when he made jokes that were objectively terrible but delivered with such pride they became funny anyway.

And she felt something crack open in her chest.

Because she realized how long it had been since she’d sat in a room where no one wanted something from her.

No contracts. No leverage. No hidden knives behind polite smiles.

Just a father, a son, and a little booth where wishes could still feel possible.

Dessert came: a slice of chocolate cake with a trick candle that kept relighting. Ethan’s eyes went wide with delight.

He blew. It relit.

He blew again. It relit.

By the fifth attempt he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Ryan pinched the wick between his fingers, finally putting it out.

“Make a wish first, bud,” Ryan said.

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, face scrunched up in concentration like the wish itself required muscle.

Clare watched him, a small boy full of hope.

And she felt something she hadn’t felt in years:

Presence.

No agenda. No strategy. Just cake and laughter and a child who believed the world might still be kind if you asked nicely.

Ethan opened his eyes, grinning, and dug into the cake.

Clare glanced at Ryan.

He was already looking at her.

Not pity. Not discomfort.

Something softer. Something that said: I see you trying.

When it was time to leave, Ethan slid out of the booth with a dramatic groan and then turned to Clare, suddenly serious.

“Are you going to come over again?” he asked.

Clare froze. She looked at Ryan, unsure how to answer. Ryan watched her, calm, patient.

“I don’t know,” Clare said honestly. “Would you want me to?”

Ethan thought, then nodded.

“Yeah. You’re nice. And you didn’t get mad when I talked about dinosaurs the whole time.”

A smile tugged at Clare’s mouth.

“I liked hearing about dinosaurs,” she said.

And she meant it.

Outside, the air was cool and quiet. Ethan grabbed Ryan’s hand and pulled him toward the car, asking for arcade time “just ten minutes,” and Ryan said no with affectionate firmness.

On the drive back, Ethan fell asleep in the back seat, stuffed dinosaur clutched to his chest. His head lolled to one side, mouth slightly open, the peaceful collapse of a child who had spent all his energy being alive.

Clare sat in the passenger seat, hands folded, watching city lights blur past the window.

She didn’t know what to say.

But the silence didn’t feel uncomfortable.

It felt… companionable.

When they pulled into the parking garage, Ryan turned off the engine but stayed seated.

He glanced back to make sure Ethan was still asleep, then looked at Clare.

“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly.

Clare’s throat tightened.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Ryan frowned. “You already apologized.”

Clare shook her head. “Not for earlier. For all of it. For the last three years.” Her voice cracked slightly. “For treating you like you were… furniture. For never asking about your life. Your son. Anything that mattered.”

Ryan was quiet for a moment.

Then he spoke carefully, like he always did when something was fragile.

“Clare, you’re not a bad person for keeping boundaries. That’s what we both signed up for.” He paused. “I never expected you to be my friend. I was your assistant.”

“But you were more than that,” Clare whispered, eyes stinging. “You are more than that. And I was too scared to admit it because I thought it would make me weak. Vulnerable.” She swallowed. “Tonight, watching you with Ethan… I realized I don’t want to be the kind of person who’s too proud to care.”

Ryan studied her. The overhead lights hummed. Somewhere above, a distant car alarm complained about its own existence.

Then Ryan reached over and took her hand.

Warm. Steady.

Clare felt something loosen inside her chest.

“I won’t lie,” Ryan said softly. “I noticed the distance. There were times I wondered if you saw me as a person or just as someone who made your life easier.” He squeezed her hand gently. “But I understood why you did it. You’re a CEO. You can’t let everyone in.”

He looked at her, eyes kind, unjudging.

“But I’m glad you let me in tonight,” he added. “Even if it was just a little bit.”

Clare blinked hard, refusing tears. She wasn’t someone who cried. Not in meetings. Not in crises.

But something about the way Ryan looked at her made it hard to keep her armor on.

“I don’t know what happens next,” Clare admitted. “I don’t know if this can work. You have Ethan. I have the company. I don’t want to mess up either of those things.”

Ryan nodded. “I don’t know either.”

He paused.

“But I think we can figure it out,” he said. “If you want to.”

Clare looked at him, at the man who had been beside her every day, who had invited her into his real life with cautious hope, who had held steady when she had been messy.

“I want to,” she said.

Ryan smiled then, a real smile that warmed the car like sunlight.

“Good,” he whispered.

They sat like that, hands linked, silence full of possibility.

Ethan stirred in the back seat, mumbling something about Velociraptors.

Ryan let go of Clare’s hand to check on him, careful and gentle.

“I should get him home,” Ryan said quietly.

Clare nodded, stepping out into the cool night air.

Ryan walked around to her side of the car.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“8:30 sharp,” Clare said, and found herself smiling.

Ryan chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He started to turn back, but Clare reached out and caught his arm.

He looked at her, surprised.

Clare stood on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

It was brief. Barely more than a brush.

But it carried the weight of a door opening after years locked tight.

When she pulled back, Ryan stared at her with an expression that was equal parts shock and hope.

“Drive safe,” Clare said, voice steady despite the sprinting of her heart.

Ryan nodded, still looking a little dazed. “You too,” he said, even though she wasn’t driving anywhere yet.

Clare watched as he got back into the car, started the engine, and drove away.

The tail lights disappeared around the corner.

And for the first time in a long time, the emptiness of the garage didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like the quiet before something new began.

Clare slid into her own sleek, spotless car and sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel.

She replayed everything: the confession, the misunderstanding, Ethan’s dinosaur facts, Ryan’s hand in hers, the way he’d said they could figure it out as if it was possible to build a bridge between two very different worlds.

She thought about the walls she’d built around herself, convinced vulnerability was weakness.

Tonight had proven the opposite.

Vulnerability wasn’t weakness.

It was an invitation.

It was the moment you let someone see you without your title.

Clare drove home slowly, taking the long route. The city was quiet, streets mostly empty except for late-night taxis and delivery trucks with tired headlights.

When she pulled into her driveway, she stared up at the dark windows of her beautiful house.

The house had always felt like an achievement she lived in, not a home.

A trophy with rooms.

Tonight, it felt different. Not full, not suddenly magical, but… less heavy.

Like maybe it didn’t have to echo forever.

Inside, the silence didn’t suffocate her.

She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the kitchen counter.

She thought about Ethan’s grin. Ryan’s steady hands. The chipped mug on his desk that said WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD, like fatherhood was something you earned by showing up, not by being perfect.

Clare had spent years trying to be perfect.

Tonight reminded her there was another way to live: to be present, to be human, to be brave enough to care.

She went upstairs, climbed into bed, and for the first time in a long time, fell asleep with a small smile.

Tomorrow would come.

And Ryan would be there.

Just like he always was.

But now, everything was different.

Now, she wasn’t afraid to admit she wanted him.

And maybe, if she was lucky and honest and willing to learn, she wouldn’t just want him.

She’d earn a place in the world he’d built, one pancake, one dinosaur fact, one careful step at a time.

THE END