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"Deal."

As we leave the restaurant, his hand finds the small of my back again, guiding me through the door and out into the cool November night. The streetlights cast a warm glow over the sidewalk, and the air smells like woodsmoke and approaching winter.

Brock stops walking, turning to face me fully. His hands come up to frame my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.

"You were never something to hide, Megan," he says, his voice fierce and tender.

Then he kisses me, right there on Main Street, in full view of anyone who might be watching.

And I kiss him back.

The following Saturday, Brock invites me to join him and Kayla at the park.

I'm nervous. Terrified, actually. Kayla knows me as Miss Hartley, her second-grade teacher. She doesn't know that her father and I are dating. And I'm acutely aware that I need to be careful—that I can't overstep, can't confuse her, can't make her feel like I'm trying to replace anyone.

When I arrive at the park, Kayla is on the swings, her dark hair flying behind her as she pumps her legs. Brock stands nearby, his hands in his pockets, watching her with a soft, paternal smile.

When he sees me, his expression shifts—warms—and he walks over to meet me.

"Hey," he says, his voice low.

"Hey."

"She doesn't know yet," he says quietly. "I wanted to introduce you as a friend first. Let her get comfortable."

I nod, grateful. "That's smart."

Brock calls Kayla over, and she hops off the swing, running toward us with a bright, gap-toothed grin.

"Miss Hartley!" she exclaims, her brown eyes wide with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi, Kayla," I say, crouching down to her level. "Your dad and I are friends, and he invited me to come hang out at the park. Is that okay with you?"

Kayla looks between us, her small face scrunching up in thought. Then she tilts her head and asks, "Will you still be Miss Hartley at school?"

My heart squeezes. It's such a simple question, but it's exactly the right one.

"Yes," I say gently, meeting her eyes. "At school, I'll always be Miss Hartley, your teacher. Nothing about that changes. But outside of school, your dad and I are friends. Does that make sense?"

Kayla nods slowly, then her face brightens. "Okay! Do you want to go on the slide with me?"

"I'd love to."

We spend the next hour playing—sliding, climbing, chasing each other around the playground. Kayla is sweet and energetic, and she chatters nonstop about her favorite books, her best friend at school, the hamster she wants for Christmas.

Brock watches us with a quiet intensity, his dark eyes soft and full of something I can't quite name.

When Kayla runs off to the monkey bars, Brock steps closer, his hand brushing mine.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"She's important to you," I say, looking up at him. "That makes her important to me."

Brock's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might kiss me right there. But he doesn't. He just squeezes my hand and says, "You're incredible."

By Wednesday afternoon, the lingering warmth from Saturday afternoon at the park feels distant under the weight of a grueling school day.

It isn't an administrative crisis or a district scandal—just the quiet, grinding exhaustion that every teacher knows. Leo, a sweet, quiet second-grader who has been fighting an uphill battle with reading comprehension all semester, broke down in tears during our guided reading circle, utterly overwhelmed by a simple three-sentence paragraph. I spent twenty minutes sitting on the reading rug with him, holding his small hands, modifying the worksheet, and reassuring him that his brain isn't broken—that learning just takes time.