Archive of Our Own ^beta

You loved your job. Being able to teach felt like a calling more than a career.

It kept you busy with grading, bulletin boards, lesson plans, and an endless stream of glue sticks and glitter… but you lived for it. The joy on a kid’s face when they finally “got it,” the silly things they said that made you laugh days later, even the chaos, it was all part of the magic.

Sure, there was the occasional parent who drove you up the wall with too many emails or not enough patience.

But what you hadn’t counted on was the opposite. A parent that you may or may not have a crush on.

You remember the first time you saw him. He was holding his daughter’s backpack on one shoulder and had his daughter’s hand in the other, leading her up to the classroom. You knew that you were getting a new student, but you hadn’t expected this much emotion at drop-off.

“You have to come with me!” she protested, before clinging tightly to his leg.

“I can’t,” he said gently, brushing her hair from her face.

“Why not?” she whined, voice rising, halfway to a tantrum.

“Because school is for little kids, not big kids like me,” he said, crouching down to her level, trying to soothe her with a smile.

“But, but…” she stammered, starting to fiddle with her fingers, her lower lip trembling.

“I don’t want you to be lonely, and what if I don’t make any friends…?” Erica’s voice cracked as her eyes welled with tears. Bob looked worried; he hated seeing her so distressed, but he had no idea how to quell her fears.

You stepped over to them, kneeling down slightly so you’re at her eye level. “Are you Erica?” you ask with a warm smile.

The little girl looked up with sad eyes and nodded.

“Well, Erica,” you said gently, “I’m your new teacher, and I just know you’re going to make a lot of friends…”

“How do you know?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, full of doubt.

You paused, pretending to think, tapping your finger against your cheek. “Hmm… let’s see…”

You leaned in a little, lowering your voice as if you’re about to reveal a secret. “Because kids who are kind and curious like you are like magnets for friends. And I’ve been teaching a long time, so I’m kind of an expert at spotting friend-makers.”

She looked at you sceptically, still fiddling with her fingers. “Really?”

“Really,” you nodded solemnly. “And I can tell you have a big heart, and that’s the best kind of person to be friends with.

“And,” you added, standing up and offering your hand, “if you come inside with me, I can show you where we keep the class treasure box. Only kids in our class get to see it.”

Her eyes widened just a bit. “There’s a treasure box?”

You nodded. “But only if you’re ready to come inside and start your adventure.”

She let go of her dad’s leg slowly, then reached for your hand.

“Bye, Dad!” She said as she waves at him. She was still a little unsure but slightly less scared.

***

Bob spent the whole day worrying about his daughter. What if moving her across the country was a mistake? What if she hated the school? What if she never smiles again? What if he’s ruined her life?

But the time he came to pick his daughter up, she was glowing, eyes bright, bouncing with energy.

“Daddy!” Erica called out, running up to him as she waved excitedly. “Need to say bye to my friends!” she blurted, barely pausing before dashing back over to them, already chatting like they'd known each other for years.

You step outside and spot him standing there, still looking slightly surprised, but relieved that his daughter was doing okay. You walk over, smiling, and Bob perks up a little when he sees you, not that you notice.

“Seems like she had a good day,” Bob chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s a social butterfly, huh? Turns out she didn’t need much help at all.”

“She was crying this morning like it was the end of the world,” he says, watching her with amazement. “Now she’s the mayor of the playground.”

“Kids are like that,” you reply with a warm chuckle. “Sometimes all they need is five minutes… and a little glitter.”

He smiles, softer this time. “Thanks for being that five minutes.”

“All in a day’s work,” you say with an easy grin.

“Yeah, but seriously. I, uh… I was really worried,” he continues, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I mean, moving from Florida to New York has been a little rough for both of us, and… I’m just glad she has a great teacher to look out for her.”

The words catch you off guard, and your heart swells unexpectedly. It’s not that you do this for recognition, but it was rare that you’d ever hear a parent stop, look you in the eye, and tell you outright how much it meant.

“Thank you. She’s a great kid,” you say, your voice a little softer now, too.

He nods, watching Erica hug one last friend goodbye. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “She really is.”

Little footsteps patter up to the two of you, followed by heavy breathing as Erica reaches up for her dad.

“How was school?” Bob asks as he picks her up.

“It was so cool! I made so many friends. Like Ashley and Yasmin, and…”

She trails off, too excited to keep her thoughts in order. Bob chuckles as she starts listing names in rapid-fire succession, barely pausing for breath.

Then Erica turns to you, eyes bright.

“Thank you! You're like the best teacher ever.”

“See you tomorrow, Erica. You too, Mr Reynolds.”

“Oh no, just…just call me Bob.”

***

In the weeks since she joined your class, Erica’s been a joy to teach. She’s a sweet kid, always sharing with others, making drawings for her friends, asking plenty of questions. The perfect first-grader. But she’s also smart, and she knows how to use that spark to her advantage.

You’d tasked the class with writing a list of their favourite things or people, something simple and reflective. Erica had taken an extra-long time on her writing before sliding it onto your desk with a proud little grin. It was unlike any of the others, far more intentional, and not a single mention of pizza or puppies.

You look down at the paper in confusion. Before Erica can escape back to her desk, you say, “Erica, what is this?”

“A list.”

“I know, but—”

She huffs, pointing at it with her little chubby fingers. “Please. Read it.”

You glance back at the paper, where a title is scrawled in neat but slightly oversized handwriting:

"Reasons Why You Should Date My Dad."

“Erica, this isn’t—”

But she quickly interrupts you.

“Are you married?”

You got close once, a six-year relationship leaving you with nothing but a broken fridge, more credit debt and trust issues.

“No.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

The online dating scene was abhorrent, and all people did on apps was disappoint at the very least and horrify at the worst. You briefly recall the time a man once threw up on his own jacket after drinking too much at dinner and sent you a Venmo request to pay for the dry cleaning.

“No.”

“Then date my dad,” She says, like it’s so simple. “I have all the reasons. See?”

She points back to her list, and you read the first one, “Number one, he’s really kind.”

He really was. He really was. By chance, you’d seen him once helping an old man push his stalled car across the street in the rain, and he hadn’t even noticed anyone was watching. Just did it like it was the obvious thing to do, weather inappropriate t-shirt soaked through, still smiling as he waved the guy off.

“He always helps me,” Erica adds quickly, “and plays Legos with me even when he’s sleepy.”

“Read the next one,” she urges, bouncing a little in place.

You sigh and keep reading, “He’s tall and strong.”

Erica nods along, “He’s as big as a tree, and he could lift one, I think…”

You raise an eyebrow. “He could lift a tree?”

She nods solemnly, clearly not joking. “Like, an Erica-sized one,” She answers, gesturing to herself, “Or a You-sized one.”

You fight back a laugh as you also try to fight the image of Bob lifting you in his arms. “Got it.”

She beams, hoping that you’re taking this seriously. Her Dad’s dating life was so important to this six-year-old. You glance back at the paper, “Number three: He makes the best pancakes.”

Your stomach growls a little at the memory. To raise funds for the school soccer team, they had parents bring in food. And you distinctly remember his pancake station had the longest line. You might’ve gone back for seconds. Possibly thirds. Not your proudest moment.

Erica clasps her hands together dramatically. “With chocolate chips and whipped cream!”

“Impressive,” you admit.

“I told you.” She leans in, eyes sparkling. “You should just marry him.”

“Whoa, whoa, that’s a bit fast. We went from dating to marriage?”

She shrugs.

You laugh, folding the paper in your hands, the corners soft from her constant touching. “How long have you been planning this?”

Erica tilts her head in thought. “Since last Thursday. When you helped me with my diorama, and said he was nice. I knew it.”

You stare at her, this tiny little mastermind, and for a second, you let yourself imagine it. Saturday mornings, chocolate-chip pancakes, someone to play Legos with after work… and maybe someone to come home to.

“Your dad is very nice, and tall and strong, but I think—”

You’re about to shut it down when Erica quickly interjects.

“Wait! Just keep it. Read the rest later,” she insists, her eyes shining with that determined, irresistible look.

How can you say no?

“Fine. I will,” you say, smiling.

“You pinky promise?” She holds out her tiny pinky.

You hook your finger with hers. “Pinky promise.”

***

Parents’ evening was always a little draining. Sitting at the desk, listening, and giving feedback to parents was... well, tiring in its own way.

You glance at the schedule and realise the next parent is Bob. You knew you had to talk about Erica’s not-so-subtle attempt at getting you two together, but you were dreading the awkwardness.

Just then, there’s a loud clatter beside you. Bob had accidentally bumped into the door with his tall frame.

“Oops—sorry,” he apologises to the door, and shuffles in as quickly as he can.

“Sorry that I’m late. I just—”

“It’s alright, my last meeting ran a little long anyway,” you say, offering him a small smile.

He sits down, shirt slightly rumpled, tie loosened, hair just starting to fall out of place; you can tell he’s come straight from work. You know the feeling: the rush, the exhaustion, the quiet buzz still lingering in your bones. And doing it all as a single parent? That’s no small feat.

He takes a seat, his nervous stature still on display like he hasn’t had a moment to let his body catch up to his brain.

You flip open your folder, clearing your throat gently.

“So, Mr Reynolds—”

“Oh, please, that’s too formal. Call me Bob.”

“Alright, Bob,” you correct with a smile. “Your daughter is doing very well. Maths is the one subject where she needs a bit of extra support, but English… she really seems to enjoy it.”

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, “she always has her nose in a book. I’ve had to buy a new bookshelf just to house them all…”

“She get that from you?” you ask, curiosity soft but genuine.

“Oh no, her mom…” Bob trails off, the smile fading for just a second. He pauses, shakes the thought off like brushing dust from his shoulder. “She was the bigger reader.”

You catch it, the flicker of hurt behind his eyes, and decide not to press. You move on, gently steering the conversation.

“But speaking of her English,” you say, “she’s been a little... creative.”

Bob raises an eyebrow, some of the tension easing. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

“It’s…” You pause, glancing down at your folder, lips twitching at the memory. “She wrote me something.”

You pull out the letter and hand it to him, hoping the embarrassment isn’t showing on your face the way you think it is.

He looks at the title and turns a bright shade of red. At least you weren’t dying of embarrassment alone. You watch as he attempts to get words out, his eyes scanning the page.

“I’ll definitely talk to her about this, this is…,” he says, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

***

Weeks pass, and you find yourself remembering other things on Erica’s “Date My Dad” list, like how he knows how to fix almost anything or how he’s really smart or your personal favourite, how he’s the best hugger on planet earth.

The mischievous thought of playing like a six-year-old keeps popping into your head, but you can’t give in just yet. You need to focus on yourself.

To do this, you sign up for a Saturday pottery class on a whim; something about the idea of sinking your hands into clay felt like the right kind of mess to make.

You’re halfway through shaping what might eventually resemble a mug when you hear the instructor greet someone behind you.

“Welcome! Just grab an apron and find a wheel.”

You glance up.

It’s him.

Hair a little tousled, that same warm smile, only this time, it’s aimed right at you.

“Oh,” he says, clearly caught off guard. “Hi.”

“Bob?”

This was a very welcome surprise. You’d gotten used to only seeing him for pickup, just a few seconds here and there, maybe a few minutes to talk if Erica was still playing, but now… he’s here, in person, fully present.

He looks good. Too good. How the hell are you supposed to focus on pottery when there’s a tall, confident, slightly dishevelled hot single dad sitting right next to you? Hot single dads might just be dangerous for your heart.

“My therapist says I should do things. Outside of work and Erica, y’know.”

“Bob time.”

You internally cringe as soon as it leaves your mouth, a “what the fuck is wrong with you?” ringing in your head but he just smiles, calm and warm. You almost wish you could take a photograph of him that you can whip out whenever you're feeling anxious.

“Yeah, Bob time,” he says with a chuckle.

You linger a moment, then decide to leave him to his Bob time. Though that doesn’t last long. Your own creative attempts are quickly spiralling into disaster after disaster. Pottery seems to be fighting you, and it’s winning.

“I feel like I’m completely fucking this up,” you say with a laugh, staring down at your very unfortunate attempt at a bowl. It’s lopsided, sagging, more like a sad monster than anything else.

Bob looks over, biting back a smile. “That’s the beauty of pottery,” he says. “You can always mess it up... and start again.”

He stands, brushing clay off his hands, and walks around to look at it properly. For a moment, he just watches as you try to reshape the clay.

Then, a soft chuckle. “Oh, I see what the problem is…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“May I?”

He reaches forward, his hands sliding over yours. “You need to centre it,” he murmurs. “Slow down. Feel it.”

And just like that, you're moulding the clay together, his hands covering yours, fingers moving in sync. It should feel instructional. It doesn’t.

It feels intimate. Almost too intimate.

He’s so close, the soft heat of his hands melting against your own. The way his thumbs press lightly over your knuckles makes your chest flutter, your skin burn. You should pull away. You’re both in your own little corner, the sound of spinning wheels and soft chatter from the other students drifting around you like background noise. The instructor makes their rounds somewhere across the room, but here, it feels quiet. Private.

But you don’t move.

“See? That looks a lot better,” Bob murmurs, still gently guiding your hands along the wet clay.

You turn to him.

His voice, his face, too close. Your breath catches. You can see every fleck of colour in his eyes, the beautiful storm of grey and blue. The comfort it brings you is completely irrational, but it’s there all the same, anchoring you in a moment you didn’t expect to mean anything, until it suddenly does.

He looks at you, too and doesn’t look away. Both of you were suspended in the moment and wanted nothing more than to live in it.

His gaze drops to your mouth for just a fraction of a second, and the whole world tilts.

You should say something clever. Or safe. Something that doesn't feel like falling.

But all you manage is a whisper. “Bob…”

He blinks, as if waking from the same daze, but he doesn’t let go. “Yeah?”

“You’ve got clay on your cheek.”

Bob lets out a soft laugh, the kind you want to record and play again on repeat. It rolls through you and settles in your brain, creating a little nest there. You might just be hearing his laugh in your dreams tonight.

Everything feels a little lighter as he pulls away, retreating to his own wheel with a crooked smile. Though you had to admit, you missed it. His body against yours, his hands guiding you. You could get addicted to that feeling.

He grabs a cloth from the side of the table, glancing at you as he awkwardly dabs at his face. “Did I get it?”

“Perfect.”

You try to focus back on your own project, but your hands are still warm where his had been. And when you glance up a minute later, he's already watching you, like maybe he felt it too.

***

This was a bad idea. You knew it as soon as you agreed to come over but…. You and Bob had now been attending the pottery class for a few weeks. Comfortable weeks, where he learnt a little too much about your life. There was just something about him that made you want to share, and that was hard to come by in your experience.

So when he started lamenting over the bake sale he’d been roped into participating in at the PTA meeting, you practically leapt at the opportunity.

“Are you sure? I wouldn't want to—” he started. In the short time you've known him, you knew he could downplay any and everything.

“Nonsense. I'm a master baker.”

Now you were in his cosy apartment, standing tall in his kitchen, equipped with a whisk and a very stylish apron, if you do say so yourself.

“Are you good at baking?” you ask, a little worriedly. The way he's been scrolling through his phone for recipes for the past five minutes with a dead look in his eyes screamed no.

“Well…no. But I just want to make a good impression for Erica. Can’t have people thinking her dad’s a recluse…even though I kind of am.”

You chuckle and nudge him lightly, “I think it’s sweet.”

“So what are we making?” you ask, rolling up your sleeves.

“Not a clue. Cupcakes?” Bob suggests with a hopeful shrug as he waves his phone at you.

You squint, eyeing the chaos of ingredients on the counter. Cupcakes were cute in theory, but actually making them look appetising? That might be a stretch.

“Since you're a beginner baker, let's stick with tray bakes. Brownies, blondies, maybe some cookie bars. All the good stuff. Easy to make, hard to mess up, and you can churn out a ton.”

Bob nods, looking impressed. “This is the sage advice I need as a parent. Low effort, high sugar, maximum praise.”

You laugh, already reaching for the mixing bowl. “Exactly. It's all about playing the game smart.”

Bob lines up the ingredients and tools as per your instructions.

You’re like a drill sergeant, meticulous in your precision and measuring, barking gentle orders as if the fate of the world depends on the perfect ratio of sugar to butter.

Bob smirks at your overly precise flour sifting. “What’s the point of all this shaking? Just dump it in.”

“One of us is a master baker and the other is not.”

“I'm just saying, you should dump it in.”

You arch an eyebrow and sigh. “Fine. I’ll dump it.”

He doesn’t have time to duck before a cloud of flour is dusted over his face.

“How’s that?” you grin, brandishing the measuring cup like a weapon.

Bob shows no mercy, grabbing a fistful of flour and launching it straight at you, but it was worth it to see him smile like that.

You both exchange a look that says this means war.

“Bob!” you sputter, but all you receive in return is a mouthful of flour that you’ll be coughing up for days.

Calling a truce, you look around at the mess. If anyone walked in, it would look like you’d been snowed on indoors.

“Sorry, we fucked up your kitchen,” you huff, trying to shake some excess flour out of his hair.

“It's looked worse. I have a six-year-old, remember?”

***

Against all odds, you manage to get the tray bakes in the oven without any further incident… if you don’t count Bob spilling half a bag of sugar across the counter, or you accidentally coating the floor (and his socks) in cocoa powder.

You survived and see now on the couch in Bob's clothes that he lent you. The shirt you were wearing was decimated by flour, so you graciously accepted it. Plus, his sweater was quite comfy and very Bob, the kind of soft, well-worn knit that had clearly seen better days. You can see where he’s tugged at the collar a time or two, maybe out of stress or habit. The soft, warm smell of him over the detergent lets you know he's worn it recently. If you weren't careful, you'd melt into it and never take it off.

But as you looked around his home, you noticed… no wedding photos, but there was one family portrait of Bob, Erica and what you presumed was Erica's mother on the mantle.

Looking down at the hot chocolate, gripping it in your hands, the heat seeping into your fingertips, you finally ask what you’ve been dying to.

“Can I ask about Erica’s mom? I don’t wanna overstep or anything, I just…”

“No, it’s alright.”

He takes a breath. “We met at NA. She was the most magnetic person I’d ever met. She was so smart and sharp, and she never shied away from the hard questions. Always had a new obsession she wanted to share with me. We got together quickly, and before we knew it… she was pregnant.”

Sitting on his couch, you nurse the mug of tea he handed you earlier, legs tucked up. The light is low, just the floor lamp humming in the corner. He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze distant.

“We weren’t ready to be parents when we had her…” he says finally, “And she struggled a lot. We were both estranged from our families, so it was just us with no one else to lean on.”

You nod, letting him take his time.

“After she passed two years ago, it felt like I’d lost everything. Erica didn’t have long enough with her, and every memory felt like it was slipping through my fingers. This year I just… had to get out of Florida. Everything reminded me of her. Her favourite coffee spots, the park she'd always stop by even if she had some place to be, it just…” He trails off, then sighs, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. “It brought up all sorts of bad things for me.”

You don’t ask what. You don’t need to. There’s something about the way he says it that tells you enough.

“I knew I couldn't be the father Erica deserves if we stayed,” he says.

There’s a beat. He looks over at you, eyes tired but steady.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he admits. “Still don’t, half the time. But I knew I had to give Erica the love that her mother wanted so desperately to give her. And I knew I had to be better than what I came from.”

Your throat tightens a little, unexpectedly. You shift your mug, just to do something with your hands.

“You are,” you say softly. “Better.”

He gives you a small, almost startled smile, like he’s not used to hearing it.

And then, quietly, “Thanks for seeing her. Like, really seeing her.”

You glance over at him. “She makes it pretty easy.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s scary smart.”

“She made a list,” you remind him dryly. “But it was a pretty good one…,” you muse before sipping on the hot chocolate he made for you.

“You think it was a good list?”

“Definitely. Kind, strong… what was the third one?”

“Best pancakes.”

You chuckle, unintentionally brushing shoulders with him. “How could I forget the pancakes?”

The smile lingers as you lean your head back on the couch, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He’s more relaxed now, hair falling into his eyes, leaning ever so slightly toward you instead of away. When he starts talking, you notice the way he gulps; you can tell it’s been on his mind for a while.

“You don’t have to at all, and I understand if you don’t want to and I …”

“Just ask the question.”

“Would you want to come with me to pick up Erica, then stay for dinner? Again, if you have plans already, I completely understand and…”

If he kept talking, he might run out of air and pass out.

“That sounds good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

***

The three of you now settle around the dinner table as you do the finishing touches, smoothing napkins and adjusting utensils. Erica keeps chattering about her gymnastics class.

“You should have seen it!” she exclaims, bouncing on her heels, her eyes wide with excitement.

“I bet it was amazing,” you say with a smile, guiding her gently to her seat before she attempts another cartwheel.

The kitchen door opens, and Bob emerges carrying plates, balanced like an experienced waiter.

“I know it’s not much, but…,” he says, as he places the plate in front of you. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint or look like he hadn’t tried.

“It’s perfect,” you say gently, your tone sincere and warm. You meet his eyes and smile. “Isn’t that right, Erica?”

She’s already halfway through the plate, tomato sauce splattered across her cheeks like war paint. “Sooo… delicious…” she mumbles between chews, nodding enthusiastically, her mouth still full.

And in that small, messy moment as Erica swings her feet beneath the chair, sauce on her nose, as Bob tries to wipe it off, it all feels a little bit like home.

After dinner, Bob is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, cleaning the dishes. Erica waits until his back is turned before beckoning you aside.

“So…?”

You let out a long sigh, even though you already know where this is going. It wasn’t plausible. It couldn’t be. There was no way Bob felt the same way you did. It was a fantasy, nothing more, nothing less. You had to ignore the butterflies that filled your stomach when you saw him, ignore the way your mind wandered to the warmth of his laugh whenever you heard a joke you thought he might enjoy.

“You can’t make your dad date me,” you tell her.

“I can because he already likes you!” Erica declared with the boldness only a six-year-old could muster.

“That’s not—” you start, flustered.

“You and my dad sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—”

“Erica,” you interrupt, giving her a playful but warning look, shaking your head slowly.

“…I-N-G,” she finishes anyway, tilting her head and grinning widely.

You crack a small smile despite yourself, trying to hold back a laugh.

“Go talk to him,” she calls over her shoulder before running off to sit in front of the TV.

Weighing your options, you decide to take the hint. Entering the kitchen, you see Bob looking unexpectedly domestic. Water splashing against his bare forearms, eyebrows knitted in concentration as he scrubs a particularly stubborn tomato stain from the counter.

“Hey,” you murmur, oh-so-nonchalantly, leaning against the fridge. This was definitely going well.

“You don’t need to keep me company,” he says without looking up.

You take a step closer.

“Well, maybe I want to. Did you think about that?”

One more step and you’re right next to him. He laughs lightly, a little breathless, and glances up at you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And why would you want that? Is my daughter interrogating you again?” he asks, a teasing glint in his eye.

“Only a little bit. It’s nothing I can’t handle,” you reply.

“But that doesn’t answer why you’re in here,” he says, setting his soapy sponge aside and drying his hands on a towel.

“Because… I want to talk to you,” you admit, letting the words hang in the warm kitchen air. It feels right… and before you can stop them, the words start flirting on their own, like they’ve been hypnotised by those blue eyes of his. “You’re kind and strong and make the best pancakes, and I… I like you.”

He doesn’t say a word, just looks at you with something you can’t quite describe.

“I don’t want to pressure you or make things weird, but I just had to let you know.”

You’ve done it. You’re ready to say your awkward, stumbling goodbyes, disappear out the door, and hide under a rock until the day you die. You turn on your foot, ready to leave, when his hand reaches out, stopping you.

“Bob?”

You pad back over to him, your footsteps soft on the wooden floor.

“Since the moment I met you, I knew there was something about you. You made me feel giddy even though we'd only spoken two words to each other. And I-I won’t lie, this is scary. Finding someone as amazing as you is one in a million, but…”

He takes your hands in his, fingers curling around yours, caressing them gently. “I like you too. And I want to give this a try.”

A beat passes, the world shrinking to just the two of you. Then, leaning in slowly, your lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss. His hands cup your face, warm and secure against your cheeks as he kisses every thought out of your head.

You pull back from the kiss, feeling like you're on cloud 9, when a thought occurs to you.

“How are we going to tell Erica?”

“I have a feeling she already knows,” nodding to the Erica-shaped blob hunched over and eavesdropping by the door.