Jillie looks between us curiously. “Are you fighting?”
“No,” we both say immediately.
She narrows her eyes. “That sounded fake.”
Sometimes I would like to legally return my child. Instead, I take her cup before she spills marshmallows directly into the mixer.
“We were discussing boundaries.”
“Oh.” Jillie nods seriously. “Like hockey.”
Colby leans against the counter slightly. “Exactly like hockey.”
“You can’t slam people into walls.”
“Generally frowned upon.”
She points at me. “Mommy gets grumpy if people touch her stuff too.”
“That is also accurate.”
Jillie beams proudly like she solved international diplomacy. Then she slips her tiny hand into Colby’s without hesitation.
My entire body stills. Because he doesn’t even think about it. He just naturally curls his fingers around hers.
Easy.
Protective.
Careful.
Like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Panic flickers hard through my chest, not because anything inappropriate happened.
Because it feels natural. Too natural.
Colby glances at Jillie. “You still owe me official festival inspection results.”
“Oh!” She gasps. “The giant snowflake got a nine.”
“Only a nine?”
“The hot chocolate line was too long.”
“Valid criticism.”
She nods solemnly. “I’m very fair.”
He kneels so they’re at eye level. Actually kneels. Not distracted. Not halfway listening. Not doing the fake adult thing where people pretend children are speaking while mentally checking emails.
He’s fully focused.
“What would improve the score next year?” he asks seriously.
Jillie considers this like a city official preparing legislation.
“More cookies.”
