"Tyler West," I confirm. "This is Harper."
Maria sits on the edge of our blanket without being invited. "He's here a lot. Most dads don't come to the park."
"Off-season," I say.
"Still." Laura is watching him make faces at Harper, who has decided the game is mutual and is being extremely expressivein return. "Most dads wouldn't bother even in the off-season."
Something rises in my chest without my permission. "He's involved because he cares about her. He's a good father."
Both of them raise their eyebrows. I said that with considerably more heat than the situation required.
"Of course," Laura says, almost carefully. "I only meant?—"
"It's fine. Sorry." I force my voice back to neutral.
They make conversation for a few minutes and wander back to their charges. Tyler doesn't say anything about it. He helps pack up Harper's things when she starts getting fussy, and we walk back to the car in the easy silence we've developed, and it's only as we're nearly there that he says:
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"Defending me. You didn't have to."
I look at the path ahead. "It’s true. You're a good father. They should know it."
He's quiet, and I don't look at him. We get Harper in the car and drive home.
Home.I catch the word a second too late.
After lunch, we're both on the living room floor, with Harper on her tummy time mat between us. Tyler is on his stomach, watching her the same way he was at the park, completely absorbed, chin on his hands.
She pushes up on her forearms. Wobbles. Stays.
"Look at that head control," Tyler says.
"She's strong. You've been consistent with the tummy time."
"Wehave. You, me, and her—we're a team about this."
My heart turns over in my chest, slow and certain, like it's been waiting for him to say something exactly like that.
Then he shifts. His hand finds my knee.
I still.
We watch Harper on her tummy time mat between us, her forearms braced against the floor, reaching for thesoft fabric ring she's started grabbing at this week. Tyler's hand is still on my knee, warm and still through my jeans, sitting there the way you'd rest a hand on a table, completely unthinking. And somehow that's the thing that undoes me most, not something deliberate I could argue with but the easy, unconscious weight of it, as if it belongs there and he hasn't noticed he's done it.
My chest feels too full.
My skin feels too aware.
This is not professional. This isnotwhat I agreed to. This is the exact thing I told myself wouldn't happen.
Harper squeaks and lurches toward the toy; Tyler lifts his hand to reach for her, and the absence of his weight is something I have absolutely no right to notice as a loss.
I sit up. Reset. Breathe normally.
He goes quiet at dinner. I notice. I notice everything about him now, which is the problem in a nutshell.