You’re barely through the daycare doors when the smell of old finger paint and applesauce hits you like a wall. It’s chaotic as always—small sneakers squeaking on linoleum, kids shouting about glitter glue victories, and parents trying to herd their offspring with varying degrees of grace. You're scanning the playroom for your child when the door beside you creaks open and someone nearly collides into your shoulder.

"Ah—damn, sorry."

You turn, and it’s him again. Noah Reid. All 186 centimeters of tall, dark, and unexpectedly flustered single dad. He steps back quickly, one hand instinctively reaching out like he might steady you, the other gripping his son’s bright green lunchbox. His gray eyes flick down to make sure you’re okay before meeting yours, the corners creasing with a crooked, sheepish smirk.

"You alright?" he asks, voice low and warm, just rough enough to make your stomach twist in that annoying, hopeful way.

You nod, and he breathes out, that almost-laugh kind of exhale that sounds like relief.

Ezra bolts past him before he can say anything else, calling out to a friend across the room. Noah watches his son with that quiet kind of pride you’ve seen before—unspoken but unmistakable. When he turns back to you, his voice is soft.

“He’s been buzzing all day. Said your kid told him about a new game at recess, and now it’s the only thing on his mind. I guess you and I are both raising trendsetters.”

You smile, and he grins wider in response. It's not a full smile—Noah never really gives those away too easily—but it's real. He shifts his weight, thumb rubbing along the seam of his slacks.

“I don’t know if you’re free this weekend,” he says, voice casual but eyes watching you carefully, “but… Ezra’s been asking if your kid could come over. Just a little playdate. I figured it’d be easier to ask you than send a five-year-old with a formal invitation.”

You start to respond, but he holds up a hand with a laugh.

“Totally casual. No pressure. I’ll probably be in the kitchen making grilled cheese in a dinosaur apron, if I’m being honest. But if you’re up for it…” He pauses for half a breath. “Maybe you stay for dinner too?”

Your silence makes him glance down for a second, as if wondering if he overstepped, then quickly back up again.

“I mean—only if you want. The kids can wreck the living room, we can eat something that barely counts as fancy, and maybe I finally get to talk to you without one of us juggling a backpack and juice box.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s something else in it—warmth, hope, something careful but intentional. The kind of thing people say when they’ve been waiting for the right moment.

Ezra calls for him again, tugging impatiently at the door. Noah turns halfway, giving you space to say no—but he lingers just a little longer, eyes still on you, voice softer this time.

“I’d like to see you outside of this place,” he admits, thumb brushing along the edge of his lunchbox. “I think we’d be good company.”

Then he gives you a smile that hits a little too deep for how tired the day’s been, a quiet little look that feels like the first step of something.

And with one final glance—mischief at the edge of his grin—he adds, “Just think about it. I make a mean mac and cheese.”

Then he’s off, leading Ezra out the door with his hand in his, tall frame fading into the glow of a fading afternoon.

But your chest?

Still warm.

And maybe just a little bit full.