“She’s into it already,” Cole murmured beside me.
“She likes lights and movement,” I said. “And people. God, she loves people. No taste.” I added the joke because I needed to—because if I didn’t make light of things, I’d start thinking too much.
Cole nudged my shoulder gently. “She has excellent taste. She likes me.”
“Proves my point,” I shot back.
He laughed, warm and low, and something in me loosened.
The first area we hit was the sensory gallery: lights that changed colors, textured walls, and a giant jelly-like floor pad that squished under each step. Kids ran across it, squealing. Babies crawled. Parents watched, tired but happy.
Gabbi reached both arms out, demanding to be freed from the stroller.
“Okay, okay,” I said, lifting her. “You want to see it properly, sweetheart?”
She twisted in my arms toward Cole as if he was part of the display.
He opened his hands. “May I?”
I nodded, and she went right to him, fingers bunching in his coat. His entire expression brightened, as if he’d just been handed the moon.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered to her. “Look at all this.” Gabbi babbled enthusiastically, patting his jaw with a mittened hand. “She’s obsessed with me,” Cole said.
“She’s obsessed with ceiling fans too. Don’t get cocky.” I paused after I said that. Was I pushing the teasing too far? Was he okay with me?
“Brutal,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop smiling, and I relaxed.
We moved through the exhibits at a snail’s pace. Cole let Gabbi smack the light-up panels with her tiny fists, holding her steady while she shrieked at the colors flashing beneath her hand. He narrated everything as if she would remember it.
It did something to me.
At one point, in the soft play forest, she buried her face in his shoulder—overstimulated, maybe—and Cole immediately swayed her a little, murmuring nonsense into her hair.
“Okay?” I asked.
“She’s fine,” he said. “Just a lot for her. For you too?”
I hesitated to tell the truth. What would he think if I told him I wanted to grab Gabbi and run? “Yeah. Maybe. But… good. This is good.”
He looked at me then. “If it’s too much, we can go. Or find somewhere quiet. Or do absolutely nothing. Just say the word.”
No judgement. No pressure. Just… choice.
“I’m okay,” I said. And for once, I meant it.
We ended in a room where fabric fish hung from the ceiling, glowing as they moved with the air currents. I carried Gabbi, and Cole had the stroller, and Gabbi was mesmerized—her whole body leaning toward them.
“She loves it,” I whispered.
“So do you,” Cole said.
I didn’t argue.
The moment felt warm. Safe. Like maybe this wasn’t a date-date, but it was something—something terrifying and good all at the same time. And for the first time in a long while, I wanted the moment to last.
Then something crashed.
A metal bin? A chair? A display? I didn’t know—just that it was loud, sharp, too close. The sound knifed straight through my spine. My whole body locked. Gabbi jerked in my arms, startled, and I clutched her too tightly before I could stop myself.
