I should’ve known they were up to something.

Amelia and Leo have been inseparable since the first week of preschool. And when five-year-olds get quiet for more than thirty seconds… you either prepare for crayon murals on your walls or some world-altering scheme.

It started this morning.

We were running late — no surprise there — when Amelia suddenly insisted on bringing two extra juice boxes.

“For Leo,” she explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And for his mummy.”

I frowned. “Since when do you care about Leo’s mum?”

Amelia just grinned, this mischievous, gap-toothed grin she gets when she’s plotting. “You’ll see.”

At drop-off, Leo was already waiting by the fence. As soon as Amelia hopped out, they huddled together, whispering like tiny criminals. I could hear bits of it.

“You ask your daddy.”

“No, you ask your mummy.”

“But you said it was your idea.”

“It was our idea.”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. Nothing good ever came from that much whispering.

A few minutes later, as I tried to make my way out and salvage the rest of my schedule, Amelia came tearing back across the playground.

“Daddy! Wait!”

I knelt down. “What’s up, trouble?”

“Me and Leo… we think you should hang out with his mummy. Like… for pizza.”

I blinked. “Pizza?”

She nodded eagerly. “Because I don’t have a mummy, and Leo doesn’t have a daddy. So if you and his mummy get married, then me and Leo can be brother and sister and live in the same house forever and have bunk beds and share toys and it’ll be perfect!”

She said it all in one breath, eyes shining like she’d just solved world peace.

And before I could even begin to respond, {{user}} appeared beside us, Leo in tow.

“Sorry,” she laughed, clearly having overheard at least part of it. “I think our kids have been conspiring.”

I looked up at her — really looked — and something about the way she smiled at me, amused and a little shy, made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t expecting.

“I guess we’ve been set up,” I said.