“Quinn has been such a wonderful addition to our class,” Ms. Peterson tells me. “And Sprinkles has been a perfect gentleman.”
Quinn beams at the praise before she spots Jamie entering the classroom. “Can I go sit down now?”
“Of course.” I squeeze her shoulder. “Have a wonderful day.”
Quinn doesn’t linger for a hug today as she pats my hand before crossing to her desk. Jamie waves from her seat, already pulling out a notebook covered in shark stickers. Sprinkles settles beneath Quinn’s desk, his large body curling into the tight space as if it were custom-made for him.
I linger as Quinn unpacks her supplies, chatting animatedly with her friend. A boy with glasses leans across the aisle to show her a book, and she responds with enthusiastic interest. This easy social interaction would have been unimaginable even a handful of days ago.
“She’s adjusting well,” Ms. Peterson murmurs beside me. “The other children have really embraced her.”
“Thank you for making that possible,” I reply, meaning it.
Ms. Peterson shrugs. “Children are adaptable when given the chance.” She touches a stack of papers on her desk. “I should get started on morning work. Have a good day, Mr. Hollis.”
I turn to leave, cataloging the small victories as I walk back through the hallway. Quinn is settling into her classroom routine. Sprinkles is accepted without question. Friends are being made and conversations initiated. All the small, precious triumphs that accumulate into a child’s sense of belonging.
And perhaps the most significant win is no sign of Carson since the first day of school. The knot of tension that had lived between my shoulder blades loosens another fraction.
I’m okay with whatever game he’s playing, as long as it means I don’t have to see him. Perhaps he’s decided to focus elsewhere. The school is large, with dozens of staff and hundreds of students. I’m a small target compared to other challenges a new dean might face.
I push through the front doors into the September morning and take a deep breath. The scent of cut grass and fallen leaves surrounds me, the first hint of autumn arriving on the breeze. My boots echo on the stone steps with a lightness I haven’t felt in weeks, and I pause to relish the feeling.
Little by little, I’m taking steps toward a fresh start at life, unexpected but increasingly real, just like the shelf Emily helped me build, and which will go in my future home.
The thought of the female Alpha sends a curl of warmth through me. The next time I see her again to continue our work, I’ll accept her invitation to stay for lunch afterward. The possibilities unfurl before me, unencumbered by fear for the first time in years.
I pull my car keys from my pocket, the ring jingling in my hand as I approach the parking lot.
“Leif Hollis! What perfect timing.”
The greeting cuts through the morning air, stopping me in my tracks, and ice water rolls down my spine before I turn around.
Carson stands at the top of the steps, his sandy hair catching the morning light, his gray-green eyes crinkling with practiced warmth. He wears a tailored navy suit that emphasizes his trim physique, a briefcase held in one hand. Beside him, a mother in a business suit gives her farewells as he excuses himself from their conversation.
“Dean Whitaker,” I manage, a fine tremor going through me. “Good morning.”
He walks down the front steps with easy confidence, closing the distance I desperately want to maintain. “Please, we’ve known each other too long for such formality. Carson will do fine.”
My stomach clenches at his familiarity, and as his pheromones reach me, they trigger memories I’ve spent months trying to bury.
“I was hoping to catch you,” he continues. “Quinn has been such a bright addition to our school community. Ms. Peterson mentioned how well she’s settling in.”
My throat tightens. “Yes, she’s adjusting wonderfully.”
“Children are remarkably resilient, aren’t they?” Carson replies, lingering on the last word. “Especially with the right support systems in place.”
A group of late-arriving students hurries past us, backpacks bouncing and voices loud in the morning air.
Carson waits until they disappear inside before continuing, his posture relaxed as if we’re old friends catching up. “Actually, I wanted to touch base with you about Sprinkles. Ms. Peterson has been accommodating, of course, but there have been some…concerns.”
My muscles tense. “Concerns? What kind of concerns?”
Carson lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Nothing to worry about, yet. But a few parents have mentioned the distractionfactor. And Ms. Peterson noted that floor space is at a premium during certain activities.”
“Sprinkles stays under Quinn’s desk,” I counter, heat rising to my face. “He’s trained and certified. We have documentation?—”
“Which I’ve reviewed,” Carson interrupts, gentle despite the steel beneath his words. “No one is suggesting removing accommodations, Leif. This is merely something worth discussing proactively. Before it becomes an issue.”