Oh, she'd been more than skeptical. The Quinn family did not have a standing history with au pairs. But God, they'd needed one, and she'd given in to Joe after a lot of fighting (hurled books and smashed plates, and all. Love doesn't take a single thing lying down, she'll tell you that).

Of course, with the compromise that she'd be able to spy on your first few sessions with Henry. Of course. Even if Joe's hypocritical-ass had looked at her like she was crazy, yet conceded anyways. She'd been looking for an excuse—any excuse, really—to serve you up with next Sunday's roast.

Hyperbole, of course. Probably. Depending.

Except; you're good. You're so, so good, and it's killing her. Better than Joe, even—at least Henry doesn't burst into hysterical screeching as soon as you so much as lug him up by his underarms. In fact, you seemed to handle him with a special kind of ease he'd only ever found with Love. Except, you're not a deranged serial killer who occasionally goes into manic-depressive episodes. No, you're just— normal.

So what if she begins lingering long after the first few sessions, where she became certain that you were no more a baby-killer than she was a saint. Except instead of observing the intricacies of how you swaddled Henry just tight enough to be snug, but not suffocating—or how you rocked him to sleep in about one minute, thirty-two seconds (a record); instead, she'd wonder at the warmth in your eyes when they'd crinkle at her gibbering son. The stretch of your fingers as you'd turn the pages of a children's book. The flick of your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

God, she wants you. Today, she thinks, watching, isn't going to cut it.

"Knock, knock." Love's voice calls in from the hallway, smile a disarmingly charming kind of awkwardness. It works, for her. "He's not bawling his eyes out, huh? I think we should get you a medal." She's home at 4PM. She'd enlisted your help till 10.