Page 91 of That Rush

The girl nods, her expression suddenly serious.

We make it through the story with only two additional dragon-related debates. When I reach the last page, Josie keeps her hand poised over the corner.

“Are you finished?”

“I am.”

“You forgot the end paper.”

“It doesn’t have any words.”

“It has a picture.”

A small, triumphant smile touches her lips as she turns it, revealing the dragon asleep on his pile of library books.

The children immediately begin discussing whether sleeping on books would hurt. Josie climbs down from the stool and carries the story to the display table while I hand out activity sheets.

A smaller boy reaches for the book at the same time she sets it down. His fingers close over the cover, and he looks at her as if he expects an argument.

“You can have it first,” Josie says. “I already saw every page.”

“Even the one at the end?”

“That one is important.”

He hugs the book against his chest and hurries back to the rug.

I nudge Josie’s badge straight where the loose jewel has pulled it sideways. “Excellent work.”

“I told you I was qualified.”

“You were very thorough.”

“Daddy says thorough takes longer.”

“Sometimes it should.”

She looks toward the entrance, probably checking whether he has arrived, then joins two girls coloring their reading maps. They make room without being asked.

I watch Josie select the purple marker, study it, and hand it to the girl beside her.

“This is the best purple,” she explains. “You can use it first.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, sharp and surprising.

I find myself looking for Josie when children gather on the rug, remembering which books she'll request and which purple marker is superior. I want this room to feel like a constant for her, a place that hasn't changed.

It’s a feeling that belongs here. I’m her librarian. She’s my glittery assistant. Our history started with a book, long before her father was anything but an irritated man in my stacks, and it’s something I want to protect.

I turn toward the desk and find Aiden standing beside the picture-book display.

He is early enough that Josie has not noticed him. His attention fixes entirely on me.

Aiden’s stare was a problem before I knew what his mouth could do.

Now it feels dangerous in a children’s library.

He stays beside the display while I gather crayons and answer questions from parents. He doesn’t interrupt or announce himself. He watches me work with the same focused attention he gives everything else, and a familiar heat uncurls, a direct reminder of the last time I had all of it.