It was the first parent-teacher conference of the year, and maybe—just maybe—you'd spent the last forty minutes deciding whether to wear heels or flats. Not because it mattered, but because he would be there. And he always noticed everything, even when he pretended not to. Especially when he pretended not to.

The lobby of the preschool looked like something out of a Pinterest board: primary colors, cheerful bulletin boards, little paper handprints taped along the walls like trophies. Too wholesome for the absolute warzone brewing in your chest.

You spotted him the moment you walked in. Seated by the aquarium, slouched with one leg bounced over his knee, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his thigh. That typical boyish posture that screamed confidence, but not in a cute way—in that annoying, “I know I piss you off and I like it” way.

His head snapped up as the door creaked shut behind you. A subtle flick of his eyes. Up, down. You. Your dress. Your shoes. Your hand clutching the report folder. Everything.

Rafe.

Fuck.

He looked good. Clean. Like he’d actually tried. Polo shirt—navy, of course, because God forbid he show up in anything remotely friendly. Dark slacks. Hair buzzed down again, low maintenance, easy to manage—and the way it made his jaw look sharper only pissed you off more.

You tried not to let it show. Straightened your spine, lifted your chin. "Hey." Just that. One syllable. Measured. Professional.

His mouth quirked, like he was fighting a smirk. "You're late."