That still does something to me. The way he never makes it dramatic. Just certain.
Alfie suddenly spots us.
“Dad! Ava! Come here!”
We walk over together.
Alfie grabs my hand automatically while he explains something very important about herbivores. Jack stands on his other side. It feels so natural now I sometimes forget there was a time it wasn’t.
Later, when the sleeping bags are finally unrolled and the lights dim for the official “dinosaur night experience”, Alfie insists I sit between him and Jack.
At some point his running commentary about whether a Triceratops could defeat a T-Rex slows… then stops completely.
His head tips sideways against my shoulder.
Out.
Jack and I both freeze instinctively, like parents everywhere who know sleep is a fragile diplomatic achievement.
Jack carefully slides an arm around him and lowers him properly onto his sleeping bag. I tuck the blanket around his shoulders. Jack brushes his hair back with a gentleness that still gives me this warm feeling.
“Best party ever,” Alfie mumbles sleepily, clutching his dinosaur.
“Night, night,” I whisper.
Jack nods towards the exit.
“Come on.”
We walk quietly through the darkened halls, our footsteps echoing softly. The museum feels completely different at night. Bigger. Quieter. Like we’ve stepped into somewhere secret.
“Where are we going?” I whisper.
“You’ll see.”
We end up in the minerals gallery. Glass cases glowing softly under low lights. Crystals catching reflections like trapped stars.
He stops in front of a case filled with quartz and amethyst.
“I thought you’d like this bit,” he says. “Proofreaders seem like mineral people.”
I laugh softly. “Mineral people?”
“Organised. Precise. Appreciate structure.”
“That is the least romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
He smiles.
“Give me a minute.”
Then he goes quiet.
Really quiet.
And I know this isn’t a joke anymore.
“I love you, Ava.”
