Jillie giggles so hard she has to cover her mouth.
“You okay?” I whisper.
“No.”
“Do you need rescue?”
“My pride does.”
Mrs. Bellamy leans around me. “You look precious, dear.”
Colby gives her a solemn nod. “Thank you. I feel compact.”
I laugh. Softly. Accidentally.
His gaze cuts to mine. For one second, I forget the cafeteria. Forget the whispers. Forget the cameras outside. Forget that we have rules.
Then Jillie runs off to line up with her class, waving over her shoulder. “Watch me the whole time!”
“I wouldn’t dare blink,” Colby calls back.
My throat tightens.
The program begins with kindergarteners ringing bells approximately three seconds behind the music. A first-grade boy sneezes mid-song and nearly loses his antlers. Two second graders spend an entire verse arguing silently over who gets to stand on the snowflake taped to the floor.
It is messy.
Sweet.
Human.
The kind of thing fame should not fit inside.
And yet Colby fits.
He watches like he means it. Not like a celebrity enduring a wholesome obligation. Not like a man performing family devotion for strangers. He watches the stage with full attention, his phone raised when Jillie’s class appears.
I lean closer. “Are you recording?”
“She asked me to.”
“She asked you when?”
“Earlier. In the hallway. Right after she informed me Mrs. Young is a seat criminal.”
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth.
On stage, Jillie stands between two children wearing silver star headbands. Her eyes scan the audience until she spots us.
Then she beams. Not just at me. At both of us.
My heart squeezes.
No. This is exactly what I was afraid of.
She delivers her line with dramatic flair, one hand raised like she’s announcing the return of royalty.
“Winter lights help every heart find its way home!”
