She snorts but her cheeks go pink.“The headband has opinions.”
“Clearly, but so do I.”I lower my voice and tip my head toward Grayce.“Tell your mother we want the dinosaur pajamas, not the florals.”
Maddie shoots me a look, but I see it—she wants to smile.She pretends to examine a rack of footie sleepers.“You’re both outvoted.We’re here for basics.”
“Basics,” I echo, eyeing a tiny leather bomber jacket on a mannequin no taller than my thigh.“Right.”
She takes the stroller from me toward a section labeled Everyday Essentials.The metal hangers make a light clink as she thumbs through them, stopping to pinch fabric between her fingers.Practical, and I love that side of her.
When she finds something she likes, she holds it up to Grayce’s chest and tips her head to the side to picture it on her.
I stand and watch the way she moves.There’s nothing performative about it.Just the patient attention of someone who has decided, over and over, that this tiny person matters most in the room.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“Observing.”I pick a pack of onesies with little moons and stars.“These feel like a trap.I buy six and she fits in them for six days.”
“That’s because she’s a weed.”Maddie’s mouth curves.“A delicious, adorable weed.Thank God you make millions.”She reaches to take the pack from me, our fingers brush, and her blush deepens as fast as she jerks her hand back.
I grin, because I’m an idiot who enjoys poke-the-bear, and I lean toward her just enough to murmur, “You blush so easily when I touch you.”
“Atlas.”A warning, but so breathless I can’t take it seriously.
“What?”I hold out my arms innocently.“Just cataloging data.You know, for science.”
She tries so hard not to smile, she looks pained.“Science is canceled.”
“Tragic.”I pick up an absurdly tiny beanie with bear ears.“What about this?”
“We’re not doing animal ears,” she says automatically, then softens when Grayce squeals and kicks.“Okay.Maybe one animal ear item.But not if it’s scratchy.”
I rub the beanie against my jaw, theatrically evaluating.“Soft.Also, this would look killer with her new sneakers.”
“We didn’t buy sneakers yet.”But she’s already steering toward the wall of baby shoes like her feet had the thought before her brain did.
The shoes are absolutely ridiculous—little high-tops with Velcro lightning bolts, tiny slip-on canvas pairs patterned with whales, and miniature penny loafers that make me wheeze-laugh.Maddie crouches, scanning, one hand braced on the stroller handle, and Grayce leans forward like she’s helping shop.I squat beside them and point at a pair of baby-size high-tops in white with a thin gold stripe.
“We need those.She’ll be running faster than any other kid.”
“You are not turning our child into a walking endorsement,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to sayourout loud.She ducks her head deeper into the shoes.“What about these?”She lifts a pair of soft-soled sneakers with colorful confetti speckles.
“They look like parade shoes.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“Every day with you is a parade,” I say lightly, because if I say it with too much weight it’ll scare her, and I’m a man who has learned the hard way to keep his weight balanced.“Try them,” I say to Grayce, who obliges by grabbing one and attempting to eat it.
Maddie laughs under her breath, the sound low and warm, and I file it, because I’m greedy about every version of her I get to keep.
We gather a stack—socks, onesies, leggings that will be too small by Tuesday, a denim jacket so cute it should be illegal—and drift toward the fitting bench where a small mirror hangs at toddler height.Maddie sits and lifts Grayce out, her hands sure and gentle, the muscle memory of a hundred changes and buckles in the way her fingers move.She slides a little cardigan onto Grayce’s arms, then holds her up to the mirror and gasps.“Who is she?An heiress?A CEO?”
“Captain,” I say without thinking.
Maddie bites her lip, and the reflection catches the moment her eyes go shiny before she blinks it away.She clears her throat.“Well, Captain, what do you think?”She bounces Grayce, who watches her own reflection like a celebrity and blows spit bubbles with enthusiasm.
I lean against the side of the bench, close enough to smell Maddie’s shampoo, a scent that is clean and a little citrusy, and close enough that if I turned my head, I could kiss the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.She feels it.I know she does, because her breath hitches and she angles away by an inch.
“Don’t,” she murmurs.
