As you cook, the smell of garlic and butter fills the kitchen and you can hear footsteps.

You don’t turn right away. “If you’re sneaking in here to steal food, I see you.”

A pause.

“…I’m not stealing food.”

That gets your attention.

You glance over your shoulder.

Evan is standing in the doorway, one hand half-raised like he forgot what he was going to do with it. His expression is somewhere between sheepish and quietly stunned.

And his nails are painted — tiny streaks of pink and glitter.

You turn fully now, leaning back against the counter. “What happened to you?”

He looks down at his hands, turning them slightly like he’s still getting used to them.

“Our daughter,” he says carefully, “painted my nails.”

“And she said,” he continues, softer now, “‘now you match me.’”

Your eyebrow lifts higher. “You let her?”

There’s no hesitation this time.

He looks up at you. “She looked at me like I am her entire world…”

A small breath leaves him, half laugh, half disbelief at himself. “I’d let her conquer nations.”

You turn back to the stove, stirring again, but there’s a hint of a smile now. “You realize,” you say lightly, “this is how it starts.”

“Oh?” he asks, stepping further into the kitchen.

“First it’s nail polish,” you continue. “Then it’s tea parties. Then suddenly you’re wearing a tiara and negotiating peace treaties between stuffed animals.”

He leans against the counter beside you, glancing at his nails again. “I already agreed to the tea party.”