“Very good,” he said. “I ate before I came.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the courtesy.”
Before I could say more, a swarm of children spotted him.
“Boyfriend is here!”
“Boyfriend, look at my bracelets.”
“Boyfriend, can you buy my brownies?”
“Boyfriend, draw a dragon.”
He got mobbed, and he loved it.
He knelt so they could climb on him and shove their projects into his hands. I watched him give every single kid focused, gentle attention. It made them feel like royalty.
Eventually, I clapped loudly. “Friends, if you want to make money today, you have to return to your tables.”
There was a lot of groaning and pouting, but they obeyed.
Cristian stood and brushed glitter off his sleeves. “Do you shed this?”
“Probably,” I said.
A woman with a teal lanyard and a sharp chin approached my lemonade stand, clipboard in hand. No nonsense. Serious walk.
She looked at me. “You are Nadia? I hear you’re the glitter person.” She picked a stray piece of glitter from her sweater.
The old reflex wanted me to shrink. Say sorry. Make myself small.
New me stepped forward.
“I like glitter,” I said. “And I run a tight room. The floor survives.”
She studied me with a thoughtful pause. “Nice. I am Sara. Eighth grade science. Some of the teachers call me Science Sara. I like clear answers.”
“Nice to meet you, Science Sara.”
Cristian stepped closer, quiet strength at my side. Not speaking for me. Just present. A steady line of heat. Even though this was my second month teaching at my new school, I still had only met a handful of teachers.
Sara nodded at the kids behind my table. “Your students are calm. And proud. That is rare.”
I took the compliment without folding inward. “Thank you.”
Cristian opened his hand slightly at his side. A silent question.Contact?
I nodded.
He laced our fingers together. The old bond did not tug or pulse anymore. But the choice between us was better than any bond. Intentional. Real co-regulation. Real partnership.
Across the aisle, a tall guy in blue jeans waved a flyer. “Yates, you introducing folks to your guy?” He sauntered over, eager not to miss out. He held up a picture on his phone of a French bulldog in a raincoat. “I’m Fred. The dog is Jacques. He runs my life. People call me Frenchie Fred. Not for kissing. For this goblin.”
Jacques had an underbite of legend.
Cristian inclined his head with unnecessary formality. “Your guardian is stout.”
Fred beamed. “Heisstout.”
