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As we worked together, bending the wire into delicate circles, I found myself thinking about my own childhood. My parents had never helped me with school projects. My father had left when I was eight, and my mother had been too busy working two jobs to sit at the kitchen table making solar systems. I’d learned early how to be self-sufficient, how to handle things on my own.
Maybe that’s why this felt so foreign and wonderful. The simple act of being present for a child who needed help, of having someone depend on me for more than just flower arrangements and small talk.
“There,” I said, carefully attaching the rings to Saturn. “What do you think?”
“Perfect!” Luca beamed, then threw his paint-stained arms around my waist. “Thanks, Mom. This is going to be the best project in the whole class.”
The hug caught me off guard, as it always did. The easy affection, the complete trust, the way he said “Mom” like it was the most natural thing in the world. My chest tightened with an emotion too big to name.
“I hope so, sweetheart.”
The power tools went quiet in the garage, and a moment later Colby appeared in the kitchen doorway. Sawdust clung to his dark hair, and his gray eyes looked soft as he took in the scene: paint-covered table, our heads bent together over the project, the comfortable domesticity of it all.
“How’s the solar system coming along?” he asked.
“Mom helped me make Saturn’s rings,” Luca announced proudly. “And she knows all about Jupiter’s red spot.”
“Does she now?” Colby’s gaze met mine across the table, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “Your mom is pretty smart.”
The word sent a familiar flutter through my stomach. When Colby called me Luca’s mom, it felt different than when Luca said it. More weighted. More dangerous.
“We’re almost done,” I said, focusing on cleaning paint from my hands. “Just need to let everything dry and then we can assemble it tomorrow.”
“Speaking of tomorrow,” Colby said, leaning against the doorframe, “I got a call from Luca’s teacher. Parent-teacher conferences are next week. She wants to meet with both of us.”
Both of us. Like we were a real parenting team, making decisions together about Luca’s education and future. The thought should have terrified me. This level of involvement, this depth of responsibility. Instead, it made me feel needed in a way I’d never experienced before.
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever works with your schedule.”
“Thursday at four. I can pick you up from the shop.”
“It’s a date.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and heat flooded my cheeks. “I mean?—”
“I know what you meant,” Colby said quietly, but his eyes lingered on my face longer than necessary.
Luca, oblivious to the tension crackling between his parents, had already moved on to more pressing concerns. “Can we havemac and cheese for dinner? The kind with the breadcrumbs on top?”
“Sure thing, buddy,” Colby said, finally breaking eye contact with me. “Why don’t you go wash your hands while Mom and I clean up this mess?”
After Luca scampered upstairs, Colby and I worked together to clear the table in comfortable silence. Our hands brushed as we reached for the same paint jar, and the brief contact sent electricity up my arm. I pulled back quickly, but not before I saw his sharp intake of breath.
“Gianna.” His voice was rougher than usual.
“Yeah?”
“About what happened at the school the other night . . .”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “What about it?”
“The way we were together. How natural it felt.” He set down the paint jar and turned to face me fully. “It didn’t feel like acting.”
“No,” I whispered. “It didn’t.”
“That’s dangerous territory for us.”
I knew he was right. The whole point of this arrangement was to maintain enough distance to walk away when it was over. But standing there in his kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of the life we’d built together, distance felt impossible.
“I know,” I said.