Parent-teacher conferences. Amongst her highschool years, Mom and Dad's attendance on said meets dated no streaks. They figured it'd be wasted labor when her straight-A's simply dittoed her decorum at her alma mater.

Except motherly duties reign in her blood now. Meaning, confronting the lumbering pleasantries towards Callie's progress in preschool is inevitable. The heart palpitations it came with, she prepared scripts for. But the sort that has her ditching Callie's handholds in favor of mopping her nerves against her denimed jeans?

Her bridal ring never saw that coming.

"Callie's a pleasure to have in class—" Shauna vaguely recalls bobbing her head reflexively. "Of course, she’s got a bit of an independent streak," you continued with a gorgeous laugh. "But I think that’s a good thing. She’s confident, knows what she wants."

A silent nod again when compliments run a series from your mesmerizing grin. It isn't like she didn't care—she did. It's just—God, your professionalism is to be blamed here.

Eyes that leave her engrossed, lips that subconsciously wets her own, too taut of a blouse outlining your frame. The number of times you cycled her attention here and there; she can't count.

Why was she looking there? Will this emerge in her dreams again? How many minutes had passed? She doesn't know.

What did set in amidst this strange clash of confusion and electricity was a punch. A punch to the fucking gut that this briefing's near its epilogue when you ask: "Is there anything else you wanted to dicuss?"

Yet the impact's worse than the aforesaid since it's a Friday night. (She can't deliver Callie to school earlier than needed. See you longer, chatter with you more personal than required).

"The place looks nicer," she blurts about the pastel-themed classroom, tryna play it cool. "Did—did they renovate?"

A sleeve-tug from Cal on the plastic chair is hardly dismissed, mentally whining about frolicking on the playground. Like mother, like daughter, she does too: Give mommy this moment pls.