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At lunch, I practically sprint to the infant room.

Ella is on a mat, chewing on a teething ring, watching another baby with fascinated intensity. She’s not crying. She’s not even fussing. She looks … content. Happy, even.

“She settled about ten minutes after you left,” Miss Tammy tells me. “She’s been great. Took her whole bottle, had a good nap. She’s a sweetheart.”

I pick her up and press my face into her hair. She grabs a fistful of my sweater — her signature move — and babbles something that sounds vaguely accusatory.

“I know,” I tell her. “I left you. I’m a monster. But look, you survived. We both survived.”

She shoves the teething ring in my face, which I take as forgiveness.

I spend the rest of my lunch break sitting on the floor of the infant room with Ella in my lap, watching her interact with the other babies, and eating the turkey sandwich Alexei packed. It’s good. He put mustard on it. Just the right amount.

The end of the day comes faster than I expect.

I say goodbye to my Pre-K kids at pickup — Caleb gives me an unenthusiastic wave, Priya leaves me the magic rock as a gift, and the twins present me with a drawing of a pterodactyl that they both signed. I tape it to my desk.

I collect Ella from the infant room, load her into the car, and sit in the driver’s seat for a minute before starting the engine.

I just worked a full day. At a school. With kids. In real clothes. Nobody called me honey or sweetheart or stared at my chest or left their number on a cocktail napkin. I taught twelve children something today — not much, maybe, but something — and I got paid to do it. A real paycheck. Mine.

My phone buzzes.

Alexei: How was your first day?

I stare at the text and something swells in my chest — not sadness, not relief, something bigger than both. Pride, maybe. The kind I haven’t felt in a long time. The kind that comes from doing something hard and getting through it on your own terms.

I type back: I’ll tell you everything when I get home.

When I walk into the apartment, the first thing I smell is garlic. Alexei is at the stove, stirring something in a pan. There’s a small bunch of sunflowers in a jar on the counter.

“Hey.” He looks up, and the smile he gives me is the one I like best — easy, warm, like just seeing me walk through the door is the best part of his day. “How’d it go?”

I set Ella’s carrier on the floor, walk across the kitchen, and wrap my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my face between his shoulder blades. He smells like garlic and soap and home.

“That good?” He laughs, one hand covering both of mine on his stomach.

“I have a pterodactyl drawing.” My voice is muffled against his back. “And a magic rock. And I made a kid named Caleb do circle time. And Ella only cried for ten minutes. And I didn’t cry at all, except a little in the hallway, but that doesn’t count.”

He turns around in my arms and looks down at me, and his expression is so full of pride — for me, not for himself, just pure unfiltered you-did-it pride — that my eyes start stinging all over again.

“I knew you’d be amazing,” he says.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I keep being right.”

I press my forehead against his chest. “Thank you. For the sandwich. And the sunflowers. And for, um . . .” I swallow. “For giving me the chance to do something that actually matters.”

His arms tighten around me. “You did that yourself, Ry. All I did was make a phone call. You’re the one who showed up, handled a room full of tiny humans, and came home standing. Give yourself the credit.”

I pull back and look at him. Really look. And for the first time since I moved in — maybe for the first time since I met him — I don’t feel like I’m catching up. I don’t feel like I owe him something. I don’t feel like the broke girl who got lucky.

I feel like his equal.

“I’m going to be really good at this,” I say.

He grins. “I know.”