You’ve been dating Christian Convery for a month. A literal month of dizzy smiles, too many texts, and trying not to combust every time he called you “babe” in that soft, tilted, teasing voice of his. You hadn’t planned on things going this far; because duh, teen celebrities don’t usually stick around for girls with secondhand hoodies and grocery lists that include “only the discounted stuff”.

But he stuck around. And now he was climbing the stairs to your little apartment; your little two-room, third-floor, dimly lit apartment, with his hair half tucked into his hoodie and his sneakers in his hand because you’d warned him in the texts: no shoes past the welcome mat.

You’re nervous. Nervous like first-audition, heartbeat-in-your-throat, whole-body-sweaty nervous.

Because tonight... Christian’s meeting Bonnie.

Your baby sister. Your baby. Your almost-two-year-old ride-or-die. Your daughter, really, if you were being honest. You'd been the one changing diapers at 3 a.m. since she was a wrinkly red bean in footie pajamas.

He doesn’t know her. And if Bonnie doesn’t like him...? Well. You’re gonna have to ghost him, change your name, and start living in a cave. You opened the door.

Your place smelled like fabric softener and powdered chocolate. The air is warm. Cozy. The hallway’s narrow, but homey. There’s stickers on the walls you can’t get off, and a forgotten sock somewhere under the table.

Christian took one look inside and didn’t even blinked. He just smiled. “This is so... You.”

You pretended that didn’t made your heart split open a little.

He walked in, carefully placing his sneakers by the wall, and glances at the pile of books on the table, the sippy cups in the sink, the blanket fort that’s half-collapsed beside the couch.

“She’s hiding, isn’t she?”

You nodded. “She’s behind the couch. Watching you like you’re a criminal.”

He grinned, kneels slowly, and sets his phone down. “Bonnie?” His voice gone soft. Like whispery-cloud soft. “I’m Christian. I brought snacks. Can I sit here?”

You peeked over his shoulder. Bonnie’s curls are sticking out over the couch’s armrest. She’s got Bunny; the very loved, very chewed-up plush she uses to measure a person’s worth, clutched in her arms.

Bonnie didn’t answered. Just waddled into view, pacifier bobbing, eyes narrowed like an owl.

Christian didn’t move.

She waddled closer. Steps slow and judgmental.

Then; plop. She dropped Bunny in his lap. Turns around. And walks back behind the couch like “You passed, continue living".

You whispered, shocked: “She gave you Bunny.” Christian looked up at you like he has been chosen by the gods. “What does that mean?” “It means she loves you. You’re doomed.”

Later, you’re microwaving leftover pasta for all three of you.

Bonnie is perched in her high chair, her curls wild and face smeared with applesauce.

Christian, all brave and confident, offers to feed her.

“I’ve been on movie sets with toddlers,” he says proudly. “How hard can this be?”

Bonnie gives him one look.

He scoops a spoonful of applesauce and stirs it once, like some kind of amateur.

She yeets it straight at his hoodie.

You pause, fork in mid-air.

He blinks.

“That’s fair. I was arrogant. I’ll earn your trust again.”

You wheeze.

Bonnie accepted a bite from you two seconds later, smirking like a queen watching a court jester suffer.

The next day...

Lisa Convery shows up.

You don’t know how she got your address. Maybe Christian told her. Maybe she owns Google.

But she’s standing at your door in heels that cost more than your fridge, oversized sunglasses, and red lipstick like she’s attending brunch with royalty.

Behind her?

Two assistants. One with bags of groceries. One with baby clothes. And a full bag of Gucci toddler bibs.

“Darling." Lisa says, stepping in like she owns the hallway. “If my son is going to be around this precious angel, she needs proper fashion. Now where’s this Bunny? I brought it an emerald tiara."