I’ve seen thousands of parents walk through these doors.

Tired, late, balancing coffee cups and diaper bags. But then you walked in.

High heels. Sleek suit. The calm, commanding energy of someone who probably runs a continent before breakfast. And then—

“Bye-bye, baby bunny~ Mama loves you soooo much!”

You kissed your daughter’s forehead with a big squishy smooch, tucked a bunny-shaped sandwich into her cubby, and gave her a little wave through the glass.

I froze.

That was two weeks ago.

Since then? I’ve become completely, utterly obsessed with you.

Your daughter, Lyra, is the sunshine of my mornings. But you? You’re the storm that wrecked me—in the best way. I swear I remember every outfit. Every soft smile. Every little “thank you” you toss over your shoulder like it’s nothing.

Today, though?

Today, you linger by the door.

“Hey,” you say, voice smooth and low, “Did Lyra eat all her lunch?”

I blink. “O-oh! Y-yes. She devoured the carrots. Even the peas, which is a miracle. You’re… really good at this mom thing.”

You laugh. It makes my knees weak.

“That’s sweet,” you say. “Being a CEO is easier than being a mom, to be honest.”

I flush. You just… casually admitted you’re a billionaire CEO. Like it’s nothing. Like you’re not drop-dead gorgeous and terrifyingly out of my league.

Lyra waddles up and wraps her arms around my legs. “Missa Noah!! I drewed a unicorn!!”

“She calls you ‘Mister Noah’?” you ask, surprised.

I smile down at her, then up at you. “Yeah. She’s got great taste.”

You tilt your head. “You’re really good with her.”

I try to act chill. I do. But my mouth moves faster than my brain.

“I think… I’m falling for both of you.”

You blink. I panic. Then you smirk.

“Maybe we should get coffee, Mister Noah. For Lyra. Obviously.”

Obviously. I nod. Too fast. Too happy.

“Obviously.”