Not paparazzi.
Not gossip.
Not fake dating headlines.
This… a sleepy little girl asking a man to stay because somewhere inside her heart, she has already started imagining what permanence might feel like.
Colby looks down at Jillie carefully.
Then his gaze lifts to mine.
And thank God for him, because he understands immediately.
I can see it happen.
The awareness.
The caution.
The quiet heartbreak.
He shifts Jillie gently higher in his arms before answering softly, “Not tonight, Bug.”
No hesitation. No awkwardness. No false promises. Just gentle honesty.
Jillie makes a sleepy sound against his coat. “Okay.”
My lungs finally start working again, but then Colby adds quietly, “I can stay long enough for hot chocolate though.”
And somehow that feels even more dangerous.
Because he keeps finding these careful middle spaces between leaving and staying.
He instinctively understands exactly how fragile this is becoming.
I unlock the front door with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.
Warmth spills over us immediately.
The house smells faintly like cinnamon, laundry soap, and the vanilla candle Jillie insisted made the living room smell “emotionally cozy.”
Snow taps softly against the windows while Colby carries Jillie inside like he belongs there.
That thought arrives fast and sharp enough to make me uneasy. Because he does look like he belongs there, too much.
He bends automatically so Jillie doesn’t bump her head on the doorway. Kicks snow off his boots without being asked. Lowers his voice instinctively the second we step inside.
Small things. Domestic things. Dangerous things.
“I can walk,” Jillie mumbles sleepily.
“You’re asleep standing up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You called the mailbox a penguin five minutes ago.”
“That was private.”
