Page 92 of That Rush

Josie spots him while carrying a stack of reading maps.

“Daddy!”

Aiden catches the papers she nearly drops and crouches as she throws her arms around his neck.

“I turned every page,” she tells him. “Even the end paper.”

“Of course. You’re the official page-turner.”

“And I gave Henry the dragon book first because I already saw it.”

“That was generous.”

“He might forget the end paper, though.”

“We’ll hope Miss Paige’s training stays with him.”

His eyes meet mine over Josie’s shoulder. The warmth there turns personal even with twelve children between us.

Josie pulls away and points to her crooked name tag. “The jewel is falling off.”

Aiden examines it. “Do you want me to fix it or take it off?”

“Fix it.”

He presses the jewel back into place without suggesting the glitter has already exceeded safe limits. Josie stands patiently between his knees, talking through the entire story while he gives dragon treasure his full concentration.

When she finishes, she slips her hand into his and leans against his shoulder.

She doesn’t hesitate. She expects him to be there, to listen, and trusts he will handle a loose jewel with the seriousness it deserves.

The rancher version of Aiden was already easy to want. Watching him with Josie makes the word ‘casual’ feel flimsy.

The final families leave with their activity sheets and promises to return next week. I carry the marker bin toward the supply cabinet while Aiden remains near the rug.

“Are you waiting for an assignment?” I ask.

“I’m waiting to find out what you need.”

I pause with the marker bin against my hip. He isn’t trying to take over; he’s waiting for direction. The difference is so sharp it catches me off guard.

“You can stack the blue chairs against the wall. Leave the yellow ones at the tables.”

“Any reason?”

“The yellow ones wobble when stacked.”

He nods and gets to work without rearranging my system or suggesting a better one.

Josie begins sorting markers beside me. “These have good lids. These have bad lids. This one has no lid, so it has to live alone.”

“A tragic but necessary classification,” I tell her.

Aiden carries four chairs at once, his shirtsleeves pulling across his arms. “Anything else?”

“The books beside the dragon display go on the cart.”

He glances toward it. “The one marked returns?”