I smirk. “Sounds like something worth seeing.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all,” I lie. “Okay, maybe a little.”
She snorts and leans back with a quiet smile, fingers curled around her mug. “Most people don’t really ask about it. Or if they do, it’s in that weird ‘aww, how sweet’ voice. Like it’s adorable I wipe noses for a living.”
“I don’t think it’s adorable,” I say softly. “I think it matters.”
Her eyes meet mine.
“Thanks,” she says, voice low and sincere. “That… means more than you probably think.”
I nod but don’t say anything else.
We keep talking like that for a while. I listen as Olive spins another story out of thin air—this time about a puppet show gone wrong and a kid dramatically yelling, “You’ll never silence me, Karen!”mid-naptime.
“You’re a good storyteller,” I say—more serious than I mean to be.
She pauses. “Thanks?”
“No, I mean it,” I say. “You’ve got this way of making things feel alive. Like… if you ever wanted to write a book or something, you totally could.”
At that, something in her shifts—subtly, but I catch it.
She laughs a little too fast. “Yeah, right.”
I lean back. “I’m not joking. Did you never pursue writing as a profession?”
“Well, I mean… no,” she says, suddenly very interested in a spot on her hoodie. “It’s not like that. I’m just a teacher, and I’m happy with the kids, so…” She trails off.
It’s a clear deflection. She’s hiding something she doesn’t want to share. But that’s okay. I don’t push.
The mood’s too good to ruin.
Talking to Olive is easy. She’s smart, sassy, quirky in a way that feels completely real. Even better? She still hasn’t figured it out.
No googling. No double takes. NoWait a second, aren’t you that guy who—?
Nothing.
She just thinks I’m some cocky, inconvenient houseguest who may or may not be a minor criminal.
I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.
And damn if that isn’t addictive.
I watch her closely, leaning back just enough to study her.
“So…” I say, slow and deliberate, “you really don’t know who I am?”
She looks up, unimpressed. “Should I?”
There’s no hesitation. No glimmer of recognition. She’s serious.
I grin. “Are you, like, an influencer?” she continues, squinting at me. “Or a shampoo model?”
I choke on a laugh. “A what now?”
