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"Have a good afternoon, Jennifer," I say.

She lingers for half a second, then turns away as Kayla bursts through the double doors. I take my daughter's hand, grateful for the interruption and irritated that Jennifer tried to create one.

"Miss Hartley let me lead the line to the library today," she announces proudly. "And she helped me pick out a new book about dolphins."

"Did she?" I smile down at her, matching her stride as we head toward the car. "Sounds like you had a good afternoon."

"She's the best teacher in the whole school," Kayla says, skipping a step. She clutches the book against her chest. "Remember last year when Mom moved out and I was scared nobody would want to sit with me at lunch?"

A slight ache tightens my chest. "I remember you having a hard few weeks, sweetheart."

"Miss Hartley noticed," Kayla says matter-of-factly, looking up at me. "She didn't make a big deal out of it, but she made me her special helper for the science center, and then she paired me up with Maya to feed the classroom guinea pig. That's how Maya and I became best friends. Miss Hartley told me that sometimes when big things change at home, it's okay to feel quiet, but that I'd always have a place in her room."

My throat tightens. During those brutal months following the divorce, I had spent countless sleepless nights worrying about the toll the separation was taking on Kayla. I had watched for signs of withdrawal, but Kayla had adjusted faster than I had dared to hope. I had credited her natural resilience.

I had never known Megan was the one quietly guiding her through it. She had never mentioned it during parent conferences, never used it to highlight her dedication, and never looked for praise. She had simply seen my daughter hurting and stepped in with gentle, unassuming care.

A deep, grounding warmth settles in my chest—a layer of love and respect that reaches far beneath physical attraction.

Kayla tilts her head up at me as we reach the SUV. "Do you like Miss Hartley, Dad?"

My pulse stutters, but I keep my expression carefully neutral. "I think Miss Hartley is a wonderful teacher, Kayla. Why do you ask?"

"You just looked at her for a long time on Monday when you brought those supply boxes," Kayla says with an innocent shrug, climbing into the backseat. "And she was smiling really big."

"She's very kind to all the families, and she takes great care of your class," I say gently, leaning in to buckle her seatbelt. "Ready for soccer practice?"

"Ready!"

I shut the door and walk around to the driver's side, my heart heavy with how much is at stake. Kayla’s attachment to Megan is real and earned, built over two years of genuine devotion. But if my seven-year-old daughter is already picking up on the shift between us, our careful professional boundary is even more fragile than I realized.

Two days later, the frustration boils over.

I'm standing near the visitor parking lot on Thursday afternoon, waiting for Kayla's after-school choir rehearsal to dismiss. Across the crosswalk, Megan is walking toward her car, carrying a box of classroom supplies. The breeze catches her long dark hair, and she laughs at something a passing parent says to her.

She looks radiant, beautiful, and completely out of my reach.

"Hell of a woman, isn't she?"

I turn sharply. Another father from Kayla's grade is standing a few feet away, leaning against his vehicle with a casual smirk as he watches Megan load the box into her trunk.

"Miss Hartley," the man continues. "Smart, great with the kids, and easily the best-looking teacher in the district. If I were a single guy..."

A dark, possessive fury surges through me. Every muscle in my body locks.

"She's a dedicated professional doing her job," I say, my voice dangerously low. "Keep your comments to yourself."

The man blinks, startled. He holds his hands up. "Whoa, relax, Rhodes. Just making conversation."

"Find a different topic."

I turn and walk away before my temper strips my composure. My fists are clenched in my coat pockets, my jaw aching.

I hate this. I hate standing on the sidelines. I hate watching men look at the woman I love while I'm forced to pretend she's nothing more than an acquaintance.

As I reach my SUV, I catch sight of Cora walking across the asphalt toward the main doors. She pauses, her sharp eyes flicking from me, to the father I just confronted, and then over toward Megan's car as it pulls out of the lot.

Cora's gaze returns to me, her eyes narrowing. A thoughtful, knowing tilt shifts her head before she turns and continues into the school.