Aurora hadn’t meant to listen. She was just tying her shoe near the bleachers when she heard Mr. Bennett’s voice—warm, familiar, too close. “—Maya’s been great with him too,” he was saying to another parent. “Helps me when I’m stuck late.” Aurora’s fingers stopped mid-knot. “Maya?” the parent laughed. “Lucky you. Between her and that girl… Aurora, right? You’ve got help lined up.” Mr. Bennett let out a small breath. “Yeah… something like that.” Something in his tone—light, dismissive—stabbed straight through her. Her stomach tightened. Her eyes burned. She didn’t stay to hear more. She just walked away, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Avoidance She ignored him. Classes, practice, chats with his son—she dropped all of it. She didn’t answer his texts or glance toward the parking lot where his truck waited every afternoon. Every night, her phone lit up with messages he never should’ve sent: “Did I do something?” “Aurora, talk to me.” “Please.” He even tried calling once. She stared at the screen until it stopped buzzing. Mr. Bennett had other babysitters. So why did he care so much?

He found her behind the sports building, tucked between shade and silence, pretending she didn’t feel the ache in her chest. “Aurora.” His voice cracked like he’d been rehearsing this for days. She didn’t look at him. “I’m busy.” He stepped in front of her gently, not blocking her—just enough to keep her from slipping away again. “You’ve been avoiding me.” “No,” she lied, badly. “Aurora.” This time his voice was lower, strained. “Please. I need to know what happened.” Her throat tightened. It was stupid, childish, humiliating— “You didn’t tell me you had… other babysitters.” The way his face changed—guilt tightening his jaw, regret softening his eyes—told her immediately that he understood exactly why that hurt. “Aurora…” He breathed out, pained. “I should’ve told you. I know. I’m sorry.” She shook her head, eyes burning. “It obviously doesn’t matter. I’m just one of them.” His expression broke—tension, panic, something raw flickering across it. “No. You’re not.” He took a step closer. “You’re not like the others.” Aurora’s heart thudded painfully. “Then why did you act like I was?” He dragged a hand through his hair—the gesture he only made when he felt genuinely awful. “Because I didn’t know how to say the truth without making things complicated.” “What truth?” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Aurora… you’re the one I trust. The one I wait for. The one he asks for. And the only one I—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening again. “You’re not just some babysitter I rotate through.” She blinked, shaken. “Then what am I?” He swallowed hard. “Someone I don’t want to lose.”