And every time I caught him watching me in the mirror, my stomach would do its fun little flip that refused to stop happening no matter how many weeks went by.
After the workout, we’d shower, grab a quick breakfast, and then Theo would leave for work and Charlotte would take over the day.
We did the usual things. Library runs. Scooter rides. Parks.
Sometimes we’d meet Lucy for lunch, or take a trip to the pool, or end up in the backyard with sidewalk chalk and an absurdly serious game of “gymnastics teacher” where Charlotte made me do “tricks” and then rated my performance with a clipboard before asking me to help her with a few tricks of her own.
Every day felt full in the best way.
And then at six or six thirty, Theo would come home and Charlotte would yell, “Daddy’s home!” before launching herself at him like he’d been gone for seven years instead of eight hours.
“Hey bug,” he’d say, scooping her up and kissing her cheek before letting her ramble about whatever was on her mind.
And then his gaze would find mine across the room.
Not obvious enough to clue Charlotte in on the recent shift in our dynamic. Just that quiet, steady look that said,I’m so happy to be home.
And my whole body would soften because I’d been secretly waiting for him to walk through the door all day.
After dinner, we’d do something with Charlotte: Movie nights with popcorn and blankets. Game nights with Go Fish or Candyland. Walks around the neighborhood.
And even though things were starting to feel more and more serious between us, Theo and I were also careful to keep our feelings as secret from Charlotte as we could.
We didn’t kiss in front of her. Didn’t curl up together on the couch when she was awake.
We kept our hands to ourselves.
Or at least, we really tried to.
So the tenderness stayed mostly behind closed doors. In passing touches. In looks. In the way Theo would just linger bymy side after Charlotte went to bed, like he didn’t want the day to end yet.
Those late nights were my favorite.
Once Charlotte was tucked in, Theo and I would drift into whatever we felt like doing. Sometimes we watched a movie. Sometimes we read books side by side.
But mostly, we just talked.
About nothing. About everything. About the parts of ourselves we didn’t usually hand to other people.
And then, of course, there were the nights when we didn’t talk much at all. Just sat close enough that our knees touched, and Theo’s fingers would find mine, and that quiet spark between us would start humming and we’d inevitably end up in his bedroom upstairs with the door locked.
And then there were the flowers.
The first time Theo brought me a bouquet after work, he handed them to me in the kitchen, winking and saying that a secret admirer of mine must have left them on the porch.
I’d thought it was a fluke. Just a one-time thing.
But then it happened again.
And again.
Once a week, like clockwork, Theo would walk through the door with a beautiful, over-the-top bouquet.
And there would always be a little card tucked in it, always saying something really sweet and romantic and ending with the same discreet signature, T.A.
“Who is T.A.?” Charlotte had asked the first time.
To which I just said, “I don’t know. It must be a secret code name from my secret admirer.”