She’s staring now, eyes soft and a little uncertain. “You don’t have to come, you know. I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to make you feel like—”
“Olive.” I reach for her hand and curl my fingers around hers. “I want to come, okay? And honestly, I’m kind of excited about the teddy bear thing. It sounds… intriguing.”
She smiles, the tension in her shoulders easing. “All right then.”
***
Olive walks beside me in a flowy skirt and ballet flats, her teacher badge swaying gently from a lanyard around her neck. She looks like sunshine in human form—calm, warm, effortless.
I’ve done my best to go incognito: jeans (normal ones, no rips), a soft gray T-shirt, and a navy baseball cap pulled low like I’m auditioning for suburban dad of the year.
Still, the moment we walk in, I can feel the eyes on me.
Not the kids—they’re too busy chasing bubbles or fighting over glitter glue. It’s the parents. A few of them double take. One whispers to another.
“Is that…?” someone gasps as we approach the class room.
A mom in yoga pants and oversized sunglasses clutches her iced latte like a lifeline. Her gaze zips from my tattoos to my face to Olive, then back to me.
“Oh my God,” she hisses. “It’s him. It’s really him.”
Another one—a dad this time—does a double take. “Ash Ryder? My wife is going to die.”
“Don’t tell her,” I murmur as we pass, offering a smirk. “Let her live.”
Olive chokes on a laugh, her cheeks coloring.
“You’re causing a scene,” she mutters under her breath.
“I’m just walking.”
“You’re walking like a sex god through a PTA meeting.”
“That’s just how I walk,” I say, amused.
She rolls her eyes, but I can see the corner of her mouth twitching. She’s trying not to laugh.
The kids, however, are way more excited to see Olive than me. A distant shout of “MISS HARRRTTTT!” echoes down the hall, followed by a thud and a squeal.
Olive beams. “That’s my class.”
“Sounds like pure chaos.”
She grins and tugs me gently toward the multipurpose room. “Come on, Rockstar. You’ve got front-row seats to the greatest show on Earth.”
We’re halfway there when a mom steps into our path, clutching her phone. “Excuse me—Ash? Would you mind? My sister’s a huge fan. She literally has your face on a tote bag.”
I blink. “That’s both flattering and mildly alarming.” Still, I smile for the selfie—
Until a sharp voice slices through the air behind me. “Excuse me.”
I turn, still smiling for the camera. “One second—just grabbing a quick—”
“I said,” the voice repeats, colder now, “excuse me.”
The mom’s eyes go wide. She lowers her phone like she’s just been caught doing something illegal, then promptly vanishes down the hall without so much as a goodbye.
I’m left blinking at a woman in her sixties, dressed in a starch-stiff blazer and enough disapproval to curdle milk. Her arms are crossed. Her mouth is a tight, judgmental line.
