Toby looks up.
Our eyes meet across the room, and I watch the flush spread across his cheeks, pink and pretty. He stumbles over his words—just one sentence, barely noticeable if you weren't watching for it—before recovering.
But I was watching. I'm always watching.
"And then the mouse asks for a glass of milk," Toby reads, doing a perfect mouse voice that makes the kids giggle. His eyes keep darting to me, like he can't help it.
"But milk is BORING," the drag queen—Miss Glitterbomb, according to her sparkly crown—interjectsdramatically. She's six feet tall in her heels, with a pink wig that defies gravity and more sequins than I've ever seen on one person. "What else could the mouse want?"
"ICE CREAM," several kids shout.
"Ice cream isn't a drink," one serious little girl corrects, pushing her glasses up her nose.
"But it's made of milk," another argues.
"That's not how—"
"Ice cream sandwiches are in the back," a parent whispers to us, pointing toward a table laden with treats. "Robin really outdid himself this week."
We make our way to the snack table, trying to be quiet and mostly failing. Jason's boots are too loud on the floor. Vaughn knocks into a display of picture books. Silas catches it before it falls, but the movement draws attention.
Toby's face is bright red now. He's determinedly not looking at us.
The ice cream sandwiches are perfect. Of course they are. Brown butter cookies with chunks of dark chocolate, vanilla bean ice cream that tastes like actual vanilla beans and fresh cream. I hate that Robin's this good at everything.
"Holy shit," Jason mumbles around a mouthful. "These are incredible."
"Language," a nearby parent hisses.
"Sorry. Holyheck."
I find a spot against the back wall where I can watch without being too disruptive. The story continues—something about a mouse who keeps wanting things, one request leading to another in an endless chain. The kids are rapt, shouting out answers, laughing at Miss Glitterbomb's dramatic interpretations.
And Toby is magnetic.
This is what he does. This is what he fights Margaret to protect. Reading to kids, making them laugh, teaching them to love stories. He's so different from the nervous, babbling man who showed up at my bar—confident here, in control, completely at ease.
A tiny human with pigtails and a determined expression plops down next to me on the floor.
I freeze. She's maybe four years old, all skinny limbs and sticky fingers, and she immediately starts poking at my boot like it's the most interesting thing she's ever seen.
"You're big," she observes.
"Yeah."
"Your boots are cool." She traces one of the buckles with her finger. "My dad has boots but they're not as big. I'm Lily."
"Knox."
She nods like this is acceptable information, then settles against the wall beside me, attention split between my boots and the story. Across the circle, Toby's watching us with an expression I can't read. Something soft and surprised and maybe a little amused.
The story ends with applause and cheering. Kids scatter for crafts and snacks, and suddenly the room is chaos—tiny humans everywhere, grabbing supplies, demanding attention, treating my pack like jungle gyms.
Jason's got two kids hanging off his arms, one on each side, while he pretends to be a monster chasing them. Vaughn's at a craft table, teaching a serious-looking boy how to fold paper airplanes. Silas is carefully braiding someone's hair, thick fingers surprisingly gentle. Ezra's on his third ice cream sandwich, watching everything with quiet amusement.
We look ridiculous. Five leather-wearing bikers surrounded by children, glitter and glue and construction paper scattered around us.
The tiny human who'd been fascinated by my boots—Lily, I've learned—tugs on my sleeve.
