She rolls her eyes, but there’s amusement in them as she sinks onto the blanket. I follow, sitting beside her. It feels natural and easy.

This is different. This is closer than we’ve ever been before. So close, I catch the scent of lavender and honey lingering on her skin—sweet, familiar, and completely her. So close, I can’t ignore the pull, the way my body reacts, the way my mind warns me and dares me at the same time.

Fake or not, sitting here with her like this? It feels real.

Kerry leans in slightly, then lowers her voice to a whisper to ensure no one else hears. “Do you think we should touch? Like hold hands, subtly enough so the girls don’t see us but enough to make other people notice?’” She pulls back quickly, second-guessing herself. “Or maybe a selfie? Even more subtle?”

I smirk, watching the way she fidgets with the hem of the blanket, her nerves making her ramble. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” I ask, hoping to ease the tension.

She nods, exhaling a quiet laugh. “Of course I am. There are so many people here who think I’m nothing without my ex, beneath my ex, or just some simple local with no real future. I wouldn’t mind a different narrative for once. A different type of gossip.”

I study her for a moment, seeing her for everything she’s not saying. And without another thought, I reach for her hand and intertwine our fingers. She tenses for a brief second, but then her hand relaxes as though she’s finally letting herself trust what both of us are feeling. Letting herself trust me.

“You know, you should just let the town see you for who you are,” I say, my voice steady but warm, my thumb tracing over the back of her hand. “The way I see you.”

She tilts her head, raising a playful brow. “Oh really? And who’s the woman you see, Vic? Your energetic, often stubborn nanny who questions everything you say and takes pleasure in stressing you out?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Close, but no.” I turn to her with my voice more sincere and filled with truth. “You’re my daughters’ incredible homeschool teacher. The woman who loves them like they’re her own. You shape their minds. You calm their fears. You celebrate their wins. You make them feel safe. You make them feel seen. You’ve made their lives better, Kerry,” I continue, my thumb brushing gently over the back of her hand. “You know how good you are. And I see how amazing you are. So, let them talk.”

For a brief moment, we gaze into each other’s eyes, caught in what feels like a trance that could shift everything. The noise around us fades—the shouts from the soccer field, the distant chatter, the occasional bark of a dog. None of it matters.