Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Was she good for you today?" Mark asks as he buckles his sleeping daughter into her car seat. He's ninety percent sure she's faking to get carried to the car, but it's been a long day and he can use the extra cuddle time. 

“As always," Devon answers. "Ran around like a little banshee in the yard for about an hour. Then we had some apple slices and she worked on her reading for the day."

He pretends not to notice said banshee peeking through her eyelashes and he secures her chest clip. "Any other homework left?"

"I don't think so," she shakes her head. "She does have two new library books. One is staying here for me to read to her and the other is your new bedtime story material for the week."

"Gotcha." He closes the car door. "Thanks for watching her, see you tomorrow?"

"Of course."

Mark gets in the car and starts the drive home, every so often glancing at his daughter's face in the mirror. She's still pretending to be asleep. "I wonder what I should make for dinner tonight?" He muses aloud. "Maybe asparagus? Broccoli? Possibly some Brussel sprouts?"

"Papa, ew!" Penelope forgets to keep pretending in her disgust. "You know I only eat carrots!" The R sound turns to a W in her six year old mouth. "Green vegetables are icky."

"Right, of course," he laughs. "Carrots and cauliflower?"

"Only carrots!” She shrieks out a laugh. 

“You’re going to turn orange,” he tells her. “I’ll have to start calling you my lucky pumpkin instead of my lucky Penny.”

Her little brow furrows in worried thought, and she’s silent for several somber seconds. “Okay Papa, some cauliflower.”

“That’s my girl,” he chuckles. “We’ve got some ice cream for dessert tonight. And if you’re good, tomorrow night we’re making cookies.”

"But Papa, you have to go to my school tomorrow!" Penelope pipes up helpfully from the backseat. "You gotta meet my new teacher! She's so pretty and so nice."

"You know Aunt Devon picks you up on Fridays," he reminds her. "Papa has work until later.”

"But Papa, it’s teacher conference day,” she says. 

Mark stifles a sigh. “Pen, you know you’re supposed to tell me about these things.”

“I did! You said ‘uh-huh, uh-huh, I’m busy,’ so I put it on your important paper spot,” she tells him. 

Now that she says it, he vaguely recalls seeing an envelope from her school. He never got around to reading it. “I’ll look at it when we get home.”

“You gotta!”

And so Mark finds himself parking in front of the faded Kier Eagan Elementary School Pygmy Goats sign at 2:25pm on Friday. He cashed in a last minute favor with his office neighbor to take over his last lecture of the day since he was screening a documentary for that class anyway. 

The first grade classrooms are on the far left of the small building, and Penelope’s class is at the very end of the hall. There’s another parent in the hall when he gets there; she’s younger than him by probably fifteen to twenty years. Short, slender, red hair. Her hair and makeup are both a little messy, as if she’s spent the day running back and forth. She’s beautiful in that effortless way that people can only be when they aren’t trying. 

When she notices him, she smiles and lifts a hand in greeting. “Which one's yours?" She gestures to the bulletin board of student photos to the side of the door. 

With a grimace, he points to the worst photo on the entire board. Penelope Scout mid-sneeze. "Believe it or not, this was her retake. The night before her first picture day, she was playing with one of those pop up suction cup toys while I made dinner, and I didn't notice her sticking it to her face. She looked like she had mega chicken pox. Red spots on her cheeks, her forehead, even her nose. That's my Penny for you."

"Photogenic kiddo, huh?"

"Yeah," Mark chuckles. "She got that from me. Spitting image of her mom, and she can't photograph well for the life of her."

"Oh? Will her mom be joining you today?"

These questions never cease to be awkward. "Ah, no"—he rubs his thumb over his well worn wedding band—"she's, uh, she's not around anymore."

The woman's eyes fall to his hand, and that look of woeful understanding flicks across her features. "I'm sorry."

"So which one is yours?" He asks loudly. He's never been able to handle the sympathetic comments or the pitying looks.

To her credit, she takes the topic change in stride. "None of them," she says with a small smile, "or all of them. Depends how you look at it." She extends a slender finger and points to the photo taped to the top of the board. The picture of the new teacher. 

Well, that's a faux pas from both of them at least. "Oh. I didn't realize. Thought you were another parent."

"Helena Riggs." She offers a hand to shake. "Or, well, Helly really. You can call me Helly."

Mark's hand engulfs hers completely. "Helly." He likes the way her name tastes on his tongue. "I'm Mark. Er, Scout. Mark Scout. But you should know that because, um, Penny. Penelope. Penelope Scout." Two seconds of skin to skin contact with a woman and his Broca's area ceases function. Maybe he should take Devon up on her offer to set him up on a blind date or speed dating or any event that has him socializing. He can't remember the last time he touched someone who wasn't related to him. 

She drops his hand and steps toward the classroom door. "The last parent no-showed, so I was stretching my legs. You got here a minute after I finished my walk. That's why I wasn't inside," she explains as she waves him in ahead of her. 

Mark looks around the room. It's definitely more colorful than it had been under the old teacher; there's rainbow posters on one wall, a bed sheet with finger paint in a corner, and a yellow sunflower rug at the front of the room. He can see why Penny has been raging about her. "Nice to finally meet the famous Miss Wigs," he imitates the way Penny says the name. 

"You sound just like her," she laughs. The sound is richer than he would expect from her. 

“Maybe she sounds just like me,” he suggests, his mouth curling into an easy smile. 

“Maybe she does,” she matches his energy. “Anyway”—she gestures for him to sit—“let’s get to it.” She picks up a folder with Penny’s name on it. “I’ve not noticed anything concerning about Penny. She’s on level for math and excels in reading. She’s friendly and always eager to jump in and lend a hand.”

This is all stuff he’s heard before. “Sounds about right,” he tells her. “Don’t sit her next to Jim though, those two get on like a house on fire.”

“I learned my lesson on that already,” she laughs. “They keep trying to sit together during silent reading time, and I have to remind them that the key word in silent reading is ‘silent.’”

It doesn’t surprise him. “They went to the same preschool, they’ve been best friends for three years.”

“Do you have any questions for me?” She asks. “With the last teacher departing so suddenly, we thought the parents might have some concerns. Hence the parent teacher conferences today. I’m the only one doing them.”

Mark thinks for a second and asks the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you staying the rest of the year?”

Helly nods. “That’s the plan,” she tells him. “I’m technically finishing out my student teaching the next two months, but when this position opened, they need to fill it fast, so my contract might not be renewed for next year, but I’ll be here until June.”

“Good,” he nods. “Penny doesn’t do well with big change. She cried for three hours when she heard she was getting a new teacher. It’s worked out though; she likes you. Has been raving to me about Miss Wigs since you started.”

A light satisfied flush tints her cheeks. “I’m glad to hear, she’s a good kid.”

He smiles. “I don’t think I have any other concerns,” he says. “I usually work late on Fridays, so it’ll be nice to have the extra time with Pen tonight. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Before he can stand to leave, she reaches across the table and rests a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry about before," she says. "I should have known about Penny's mom. I haven't been here for long, but that's not an excuse. I assumed until now that the woman I see at pickup most days is her mother."

"My sister," he states. 

"That makes sense." She nods. "She looks like you."

"We're twins. I'm older."

"I'm a twin too!" Immediately after she says it, her face crinkles in embarrassment. "Sorry, I'm not. Well, I was, but uh...I parasitized mine in the womb?" Her voice pitches up and he can't help but notice the red flush steadily creeping up her neck. 

He nods slowly, unsure of how to respond to that. 

"Fuck. Wait, shit, I shouldn't swear," the last part comes out sotto voce. "Never mind all that, I can't seem to stop putting my foot in my mouth today. I'm sorry, I must not be instilling a lot of confidence in my teaching abilities right now."

"Don't worry about it." He waves his hand dismissively. "You should have seen me my first year teaching. I once sweat so much that my notes smudged to the point of illegibility, and I forgot the order of events leading to the assassin of Archduke Franz Ferdinand."

“You teach?!” Her face lights up. “History? What grade?”

The eagerness is cute. She’s cute. Which is a strange thing for him to notice; the last time he thought that about someone was…he doesn’t remember. “Yes, history. Early twentieth century, World War I, and the interwar period. I’m a professor at Ganz College.”

Wow, she mouths. “Pretty impressive old man.” A small smirk. Then another almost panicked expression. “Shit, sorry. Oh fuck, I swore again. I promise I don’t swear in front of the kiddos.”

Mark shakes his head and chuckles. “Nothing Pen hasn’t heard before. I’m afraid her aunt and I aren’t the best examples in that regard.”

Helly schools her expression and tucks a flyaway strand of curly red hair behind an ear. “She’s one of my best readers, so I think you’re a fine example in some regards.”

He warms at the compliment. It’s always nice to hear that he’s doing a good job as a parent from someone other than Devon. “Thank you. I try my best.”

She squeezes his arm, and he realizes that she’s still touching him, that she’s been touching him this whole time. Fire courses up his arm, into his bloodstream, to his heart, downward to…other places. And nope, he can’t think like that. He’s not going to think inappropriate thoughts about his daughter’s teacher. His daughter’s very young and very beautiful teacher whom he must retain a polite but professional distance from. “-didn’t hear anything I said, did you?” Oh shit, she was speaking. 

Mark ducks his head. “Zoned out there, sorry,” he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Anyway, I should be heading out. Penny is excited to make cookies and watch a movie tonight. Fridays are snacks and snuggles night, and she’ll be delighted to have a few extra hours.”

“That’s sweet.” Helly finally removes her hand from his arm. His blood cools and he can think clearly again. “I was asking if you’d be willing to sign up to chaperone our aquarium field trip later this year. We need another two volunteers, and I assume you already have a background check the school will accept. If we don’t have enough volunteers in advance, the school will cancel the trip. It’s on a Saturday.”

His ready built excuse of teaching is whisked away with that. He opens his mouth to come up with any other excuse, but then she sticks out her lower lip and widens her eyes. The puppy dog eyes. He’s a sucker for the puppy dog eyes. He couldn’t resist Gemma’s, he can’t resist Penny’s, and, apparently, he can’t resist Helly’s either. “Of course,” he finds himself saying. “Should I give you my phone number?” Then, hastily, he adds, “You know, so you can text me information about the event. Not any other reason.” He’s going to throw himself in the creek. 

Helly’s mouth—soft, pink, kissa-NO—curves into an amused smile. “I have your phone number, Mark. You’re Penelope’s emergency contact. I have your cell and your office extension. I know how to reach you.”

“Right, stupid.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I should have thought about that.”

“Just giving you shit,” briefly she grins, then, “goddamnit, I swear I…okay maybe perhaps I could end that at ‘I swear.’”

Awkwardness forgotten, Mark laughs at the way her brow furrows. “I promise I won’t tell on you,” he whispers conspiratorially. 

She starts to respond, but a knock on the door draws her attention. “Oh no!” She says suddenly. “We’ve gone over time, my next parent is here.” She stands up and herds him toward the door, which she opens to reveal a parent he vaguely recalls from the Christmas recital last month. “I am so sorry,” she’s saying. “Come on in, let’s get started, you’re David’s mom right?”

He skirts around the two women and out into the hall. As the door to the classroom closes, Helly looks back over her shoulder and fucking winks at him. She winks. What’s he supposed to think of that?! He can already tell he’s fucked twelve ways from Tuesday if he interacts with her again. Now he’ll just have to figure out a way to minimize any interactions. 

Chapter Text

Mark does his best to avoid crossing paths with Helly in the mornings when he drops Penny off and on Monday and Wednesday afternoons when he picks her up. It's relatively easy since she's off like a shot in the mornings and just as fast to come running to regale him with her latest story in the afternoon. But three weeks later, he gets to the front of the pick up line, and Penny is nowhere to be seen. After five minutes—and the car behind him laying on the horn—he circles around to the parking lot and finds an empty spot. 

He seeks out the teacher on bus duty for the day. "Excuse me, do you know where I might find my daughter?" He asks. "She's not come out yet and usually she's out by now."

The teacher looks around as if he'll see her hiding somewhere. "Who's her teacher?"

"Miss Riggs."

"Oh, have you checked your phone?" He asks. "There was a small scuffle between a few students in Miss Riggs's class when the bell went off. They brought the kids to the office and contacted their parents."

Sure enough, he has two missed calls and a text when he fishes his phone out and turns it off Do Not Disturb. 

Pen's School 3:35 PM: Hello Mr. Scout, your daughter, Penelope, was involved in an argument with another student this afternoon. Nobody was injured, but you will need to come inside to pick her up this afternoon. 

Mark heads into the building and finds Penelope sitting in the main office with her arms crossed and her face contorted with rage that's clearly directed at a little boy on the other side of the room. On Penny's right is Jim who has drying tear tracks down his cheeks. 

"Ah, you must be Mr. Scout," a young secretary rises from the desk. "Mr. George and Mrs. Lewis are already here. If you wouldn't mind joining them in Mr. Milchick's office?" She gestures toward a closed door off to the side. "I'll continue to keep an eye on the children."

On his way into the office, he sends a look over his shoulder. The kind of look that says We'll be talking later, young lady. Penny doesn't break eye contact with the other kid. 

Inside the office, he finds the assistant principal, two parents, and Helly. Because of course she's here. "Come on in, take a seat," Mr. Milchick offers him a warm smile and gestures at the only remaining chair. As soon as he sits, Mr. Milchick launches into it. "Thank you all for being so willing to come inside and discuss this. Now I'm sure you're all aware of the anti-bullying policy we have here at Kier Eagan Elementary, hmm?"

Mark glances to Dylan who shrugs slightly. They're both out of the loop it seems. 

"Good," Mr. Milchick continues despite no response. "Unfortunately, since all of your children were involved in the incident, they're all going to face the same punishment. Two days of in-school suspension will be sufficient. They'll each be put in a room by themselves with a homework packet. No recess and they'll eat lunch in the office. We have a bathroom at the nurse's station they can use on those days."

He's about to rise a fuss himself when the woman by the window, Mrs. Lewis presumably, pipes up. "I'm sorry, you haven't told us what happened."

Over Mr. Milchick's shoulder, Helly's mouth presses in a thin line. "If you would allow me to—"

"I'm afraid that won't be necessary," he cuts her off. "I assure you, my judgment is sound and this is the most appropriate course of action. There was some strong language used, but no physical harm was done."

"I'd like to hear it from my kid," Mark says. 

"Yeah!" Dylan agrees. 

Mrs. Lewis nods as well. 

Mr. Milchick pinches the bridge of his nose as if they're the troublemaking kids. "For non-violent altercations, school policy is to—"

"Seth." This time it's Helly cutting him off. "You know as well as I do that you're oversimplifying this. Let the kids explain themselves."

He picks up the phone on his desk. "Ms. Huang, would you send the children in please?"

A minute later, the door bursts open and Penelope immediately launches into her explanation. "Daniel told Jim he had girl dog hair and he had scissors and was going to cut it," she says in a jumble. "So I told him he was being a mean dumb racer. But he said he's not a racer since he doesn't drive racecars. But I told him I meant  racer like someone who doesn't like people who look different. And then he said I was a stupid face and he grabbed Jim's hair and he tried to cut it."

"Nuh-uh!" Daniel says. "I didn't say nothing to Jim, he's lying. He's a big baby."

"Am not!" Jim says from where he's hiding behind Penny. 

"You cried when I won the spelling game!"

"Did not!"

"One, two, three, eyes on me," Helly draws their attention with ease. "One at a time please. Jim, can you tell us what happened."

Jim steps forward but keeps a grip on Penny's hand. "Yesterday was wash day and daddy did my hair in braids with beads at the end," he starts. Mark notices that his hair is currently in puffs around his head. "But Daniel and Toby saw it and said braids were for girls and said I was a girl, but I'm not a girl I'm a boy. Penny helped me take them out at recess, but then I Daniel said I looked like a dirty dog with my hair everywhere."

"I did not!"

"Daniel, it's not your turn to speak."

"He grabbed the scissors by the door when we were leaving and said he was gonna cut it so I'd look normal," Jim continues. "Penny called him um I don't remember it sounded funny though. Then he called her stupid and tried to get me with the scissors but she made him drop them."

"Penelope already told us what happened," Helly says. "So it's Daniel's turn now. Tell the truth please."

Daniel glances between his mom and his teacher. "He had these stupid pink and purple beads in his hair and it made him look like a stupid girl with his stupid long hair," he mumbles, shrinking a little under the weight of so many eyes. "And he's the only boy whose best friend is a girl it's super weird and he's got her cooties all over him," he wrinkles his nose. "And then his hair looked even more stupider like now. It looks like my dog. I only pretended to cut it. I didn't touch him. Penny used potty mouth words and pushed me."

"Penelope, did you push Daniel?" Helly asks, speaking before Mr. Milchick has the chance to. 

"No," she shakes her head vehemently. "All I did was take the scissors. Papa says never to hurt anyone unless they hurt you first." 

"Did you call him names?"

"Yeah! A lily-livered backmash," Penny supplies with a smile. Mark has to press a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. 

"No you used a potty word!" Daniel insists. 

"A fucking lily-livered backmash!" Mark bites his tongue. 

"See!" 

"Settle down please." Helly holds up her hands and the children fall silent. She's got to be a fucking magician. 

"Thank you," Mr. Milchick stands up and smiles at the kids. "Would the three of you please return to the seats by Ms. Huang?"

Daniel leaves first followed shortly by Penny and Jim. 

"Is all this hubbub really necessary?" Mrs. Lewis asks. 

Mr. Milchick sits back down and turns his smile on the adults. "As I already said, the punishment for a first offense non-violent altercation is two days of in-school suspension. That hasn't changed."

"Dude, really?!" Dylan stands up. "You're going to sit here and tell me that this lady's little asswipe thought it was okay to threaten to cut my kid's hair and he's being punished for it? You heard all three of them, Jim didn't do anything."

"School policy dictates that all involved parties receive the same punishment."

"No." Dylan is firm. "Not to point out the obvious, but my kid is Black. You're Black, Mr. Milchick. I would hope you understand why making fun of my kid's hairstyle and then comparing him to a dog is inappropriate. Not to mention trying to cut it. If you punish my kid for this, I will be filing a complaint."

"Please sit down, Mr. George." His mouth presses into a thin line. "Considering the extenuating nature of the circumstances, I can, on this occasion, acquit young Jim of his involvement. Penelope and Daniel, however, will both be sitting in in-school suspension next Monday and Tuesday."

"Mr. Milchick," Mark speaks up. "Surely that's a bit extreme. Penelope may have used some inappropriate language, but she was standing up for her friend. You can't lock her up in the office all day for swearing one time. I will have a talk with her about using appropriate language while at school, but I will not agree to an in-school suspension." 

"Alternatively, you can opt for a two day standard suspension, but I would imagine with your line of work, Mr. Scout, that the in-school option is better."

"Absolutely not." Now Mark is standing. "My daughter will not be facing a suspension of any sort. Had she been violent, then this would be a different conversation, but that's not the case. What kind of message are you teaching these kids if bullying and standing up to a bully are treated the same way?"

Before Mr. Milchick responds, Helly speaks up again. "If I might recommend," she says, "I would suggest revoking Penny's recess privileges for two days. Is that a solution we can all agree on?"

Mark looks at her gratefully. "Yes." He sits back down. "That's a much more appropriate response for the infraction."

Mr. Milchick's nostrils flare, but he wrangled his expression to a cordial smile. "Make that three days, and we have ourselves a deal. Are we done here now? Or do you also have an argument for me, Mrs. Lewis?"

Daniel's mom lifts her hands in surrender and shakes her head. "No," she says. "He's been acting up recently, I think some time alone with his thoughts will do him well."

"Well in that case"—Mr. Milchick's stands and gestures them toward the door—"let's all get out of here."

Somehow, Mark is the last one out of the office, and he finds, to his amusement, that Penelope is already out front and excitedly chatting with Jim and Dylan. He takes a moment to watch her through the window as she glares at Daniel one more time then waves as Dylan and Jim slowly head toward their minivan. 

"Papa, can I go to Jim's house?" Penny asks almost as soon as he's outside the school. "Mr. Dylan says he's going to braid his hair again and that I can help with the beads."

Mark isn't surprised that she already has plans to play at the George's house less than a minute after getting out of the office. "As long as you do your homework," he says. "Do you want me to pick you up before or after dinner?"

"After! Bye, Papa." She wraps her arms around his knees in a quick hug and then she's off like a shot to Dylan's minivan. 

"Don't run in the parking lot!" He calls after her. 

"Sorry," she shouts over her shoulder. She disappears into the car and crawls into the spare booster seat Dylan keeps for occasions like this. 

Dylan looks back at Mark and shrugs in the universal parental gesture of what else can I do? Mark returns it and gestures at his phone to indicate he'll call later when he's on his way to pick her up. 

Without Penny to take home, he no longer has any plans for the evening. Vaguely, he thinks about stopping at gas station for a six pack on his way home, but if he's picking her up later, then he doesn't want any alcohol in his system. He's not much of a drinker these days anyway. He shrugs and starts trudging to his car, already settling on binge-watching whatever crap the history channel is playing. 

"Hey, wait up!" He hears a feminine voice call after him before he gets his door unlocked. 

"Yeah?" He turns to find Helly waving from two parking spaces over.  

"So we meet again, Mr. Scout," she smiles. "Or is it Dr. Scout?" She weaves toward him and leans against the car next to his. 

"Dr. Scout was my wife. I'm Professor Scout to my students, Mark to everyone else." He gets the question often enough, but it never fails to bring with it a dull ache in the chest when he thinks of the PhD program he had to defer indefinitely one semester from defending his dissertation. He had two Master's and a multitude of post-graduate certifications, but no doctorate. He and Gemma had a life plan. She did her doctoral program first while he worked full-time, then, once she graduated, she would work full-time and he would get his PhD. When she died, Mark went back to work, and, subsequently, his doctoral program went unfinished. 

"Nice to see you again, Professor." Helly wiggles her eyebrows at him for some fucking reason. Probably to give him a heart attack and send him to an early grave in an elaborate plan to kidnap Penelope. Joke's on her though, Devon is her de facto guardian if anything happens to him, and she's not as weak to pretty women as he is—which isn't saying much given how low the bar is. 

"Didn't know you were my student." He shakes off the dull pain of the past. "I've not gotten your essay on trench warfare yet. That was due Monday."

"It was?" She lifts a hand to her mouth in mock horror. "I'm so sorry Professor, I put it in my planner for next week. Can I please get an extension?"

He taps his chin in thought. "If I allow it, I expect only the highest quality work from you."

Her head bobbles up and down. "I'll write an extra page," she promises. "I won't let you down."

Mark isn't able to hold back a laugh any longer. "I'm sure you'd be a great history student," he tells her, "but I think you've found your calling already. You made that meeting go much smoother than it would have."

A rosy flush rises to her cheeks along with a shy smile. "Thank you," she says. "I try my best. Unfortunately, the school is an Eagan school which means it has some backward ass policies surrounding, well, everything."

He nods even though he's not entirely sure the significance of the name. Something to do with the town founder and a secretive biotech company. "Damn, you swear in the school parking lot?"

Her eyes widen. "Oh shit, sorry."

His lips curl into a grin that shows his top teeth. "I'm only teasing," he assures you. "I'm thankful, really. I'm not sure we would have had such a successful outcome had you not stepped in back there. I know that can be difficult, especially when you're new to a position."

Her cheeks redden further. "All I'm doing is looking out for the children's best interests. Punishing them equally would not have been appropriate given the situation. I don't want this tow- school teaching them not to stand up for themselves."

"Yeah," he sighs. "It's not the first time I've disagreed with the administration here. But it is the first time I've not resorted to pulling the clueless single father card. So thank you for that."

"You? Clueless?" She scoffs. "You clearly aren't clueless."

"I'm not?" He was joking, but the sincerity in her voice takes him aback. 

"Of course not," she shakes her head. "I've only met you twice, and I can already say you're a better dad than mine ever was. Er, uh, sorry that's not appropriate," she winces. 

He waves in dismissal. "Also in the shitty dad club, huh?" He chuckles. "The had a shitty dad kind, not the is one. Not that you're a dad. Unless..." Yeah okay, new evening plans unlocked, bury his head in the sand and never talk again.

Helly snorts and covers her mouth—unfortunate he thought it was cute. "You'll have to take that up with my cat," she tells him. "Both if I'm a dad and if I'm a shitty one."

"You have a cat?" He asks. It shouldn't surprise him, but it does somehow. 

"Yeah," she smiles. "She's solid white, blind, and screams from the second she feels the door close at night to the second it opens in the morning. I found her huddled under my car during a storm during my undergrad and smuggled her home."

Now that doesn't surprise him. "I've got two fish myself," he supplies without her asking. "Two bettas, a red one and a blue one. Pen named them Reddy and Bluey, you'll never guess who is who?"

"The blue one is Reddy?"

"Yeah, that's my little contrarian for you," he laughs. "I'd say I don't know where she got it from, but that's all me. You ever look at your kid and go, 'damn, that's me?' Wait no, of course you don't, you don't have a kid. Unless..." He's changed his mind he needs to bludgeon himself with a shovel. 

She snorts again and this time doesn't cover her mouth which gives him a great view of the way her nose wrinkles and her top teeth show. "Again, ask the cat," she tells him. 

Mark turns the key in the lock. “I should probably get going,” he says. “Otherwise I’m going to stick my foot in my mouth again and nobody wants to see that.”

“I do,” she says a little too eagerly. “Er, what I mean is it would be impressive if you could,” she backpedals. 

Pot meet fucking kettle. He really needs to get out of here. “I’ve got essays to grade.” He opens the door and lifts a foot into the car. 

Helly unlocks her own car with a press of a button. “Sorry, don’t let me hold you up.” She takes a few steps away and he should be relieved but now he can no longer make out the freckles on the bridge of her nose and that’s really quite tragic. 

“You aren’t.” He’s halfway in the car. 

She smiles at that. “Well in that case,” she laughs, “I do have a question.” 

He can’t think of anything it could possibly be. There’s no late library books, no missing assignments, oh god. “I already volunteered for the aquarium, what else?” He’s sure he sounds horrified because she covers her lovely smile again. 

“Nothing like that.” God her laugh is cute even when she’s covering it. He wonders what her face would look like if he caught her wrists and held her hands away from her expression—no, no he definitely doesn’t wonder that even a little nope. “I was wondering if you knew what that meant? What Penny said? Not the first part, I know lily-livered means cowardly.”

“Oh.” He relaxes and rubs the back of his neck. “She called him a cowardly scoundrel more or less,” he explains. “World War I slang. I teach a lesson on swearing and slang usage during war time usually around a holiday to entice my students into not skipping. You’re lucky in that regard actually, your kiddos are legally obligated to show. Anyway, sometimes Pen asks me to teach her a lesson at night instead of a bedtime story, so I regurgitate whatever the lecture of the day was.”

Helly’s expression softens into something he doesn’t quite recognize when directed at him. “That’s quite sweet,” she tells him. “The teaching her about history part, not the truancy thing. You definitely knew what I meant.”

“Yeah, I definitely did.” Now they’re both staring at each other. He’d probably stay there forever if his knee weren’t beginning to cramp at his position. “I should go,” he reiterates. “I have to prepare a ‘I’m not disappointed in you for standing up for your friend, but swearing at school isn’t appropriate’ lecture for my daughter.”

“Right, of course.” She’s got her car door open now. “See you around then.”

“Yeah, see you.”  He barely manages to stop himself from face planting against the steering wheel once the door is closed.

Chapter Text

Realistically, he could avoid her if he wanted to, but he's taken to telling himself he can't. It's her job, after all, to be around at the times he's dropping off or picking up his daughter. Avoiding her seven times a week is simply a task that exceeds the expectations of his abilities. 

He isn't talking to her; Penny is fast to leave whether it's in the morning or the afternoon, and she's not gotten into anymore fights, so he has no reason to get out of the car. Which means their interactions are limited to a wave of acknowledgment through the car window. A wave, he notices, that other parents aren't privy to. She waves at the children, sure, but as far as parents go he's the only one. 

Probably he's wrong. Probably he's reading too far into things. Probably he should stop thinking about her so goddamn often. 

None of that stops the smile from spreading across his face each time he sees her through the window. It doesn't make sense. He's interacted with other women—ones closer to his age—in a smattering of dates over the last couple years. He even dated someone, his sister's midwife Alexa, for three months, but that was three years ago. He liked her well enough, but there wasn't a spark between the two of them—not to mention the drunken breakdown she saw him have. That relationship ended abruptly and awkwardly, and he's not been on any second dates since. Not that he's wanted to; the women he's gone out with have been pleasant, but there's always been a drawback: she doesn't care for children or she has children of her own and cares more about finding them a father than choosing a life partner. She doesn't laugh at his jokes or she thinks history is boring or she wants to overhaul his and Penny's entire lifestyle. Needless to say, he's not been on many dates in recent years. And if he were to go on a date, it would be with someone age appropriate which definitely isn't his daughter's teacher.

God, he needs to stop thinking about her. Even if it's hard to when she makes eye contact with him and gives a cute little wave—no, a normal wave—as Penny dashes to the car. 

"Papa!" She flies into the back seat like a hurricane. "You won't believe what Ally said at recess today!"

"Seat belt," he prompts. 

"Ugh, fine." Penelope latches herself into her car seat while launching into a full breakdown of the elementary playground drama of the day. 

Mark is content to listen to her ramble all the way home. It's a more than welcome distraction from the way his chest fluttered when Helly waved at him. He is a grown adult man, he does not need his body to act like a middle schooler with their first crush. 

Once they're home, he puts together a small snack for Penny to eat and sits down at the table with his laptop. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to find a text. 

Unknown Number 3:55 PM: Hello, this is Helena Riggs from Kier Eagan Elementary School! If you are receiving this message, then your child has indicated you as a potential guest for a career day event at the school! You will receive an email with more details, please be on the lookout for that. 

Career day? Mark would rather shoot himself in the foot than talk to a bunch of six year olds about teaching history. Unfortunately, he already knows he will—do the talking that is; he doesn't have a gun. Part of being a single parent is doing everything he can to fill two pairs of shoes for his daughter. This often looks like agreeing to things even when he'd rather do literally anything else. 

It's something to think about later. Right now, he has emails to sort through from his own students. It's the usual slew he's come to expect in his years as a professor: questions about today's lecture, questions entirely unrelated to today's lecture, an overachiever asking about the next essay that's not due for a month, someone asking for today's slide deck as if he doesn't make them readily available online, and a colleague asking to grab lunch soon. He skims through them for any emails that require a quick response then sorts the other ones by level of urgency. When he gets up to grab a glass of water, there's another text on his phone. 

Unknown Number 4:13 PM: sry about the formal message this is helly 

He's surprised by the second text. First in its informality and then in its existence at all. Obviously, the number belongs to Helly; her name was in the first text. So why did she feel the need to send a follow up? Is he the only one who got a second text? Should he respond? He decides he will. 

Mark S. 4:21 PM: This is Mark Scout. 

Helly R. 4:26 PM: i know

Mark S. 4:32 PM: I knew you were Helly; your name was in the first text. I thought we were repeating unnecessary information. 

Helly R. 4:33 PM: u text like an old man

Mark S. 4:40 PM: Since when is usage of proper punctuation "texting like an old man"?

Helly R. 4:46 PM: cuz no one under 30 txts like that 

Mark S. 4:48 PM: Oh, so you text like a child?

After fifteen minutes, a response hasn't come through. Shit. He shouldn't have made that comparison. He shouldn't have responded to her text in the first place; they were getting dangerously close to flirting. It was improper behavior. At least he has some slides to edit for his lectures tomorrow. He needs to stop thinking about this woman, but as soon as his text notification sounds, he looks at his phone again. 

Helly R. 5:28 PM: i txt like im 26 and not a boring old man 

Oh god, she's twenty-six. He's twice her fucking age. He shouldn't text back. He's not going to. It's time to get dinner cooking if he's going to have it done by 6:15. 

His wherewithal only lasts as long as it takes to put together a stir fry and wrangle Penny away from the evening cartoons in the living room. He doesn't even put the leftovers away before pulling his phone out and shooting off a response. 

Mark S. 6:43 PM: I text like I'm fifty-one, which would make me middle-aged, not old. 

He spells out the number as if that will somehow hammer in the message that he's too old for her; he's not sure if he means it to be for her benefit or his. Either way, it's not enough to deter her response. 

Helly R. 6:46 PM: whatever you say old man ive seen those gray hairs

"Papa, why are you laughing at your phone?" Penny's question draws his attention away from his thoughts. 

"It's nothing," he lies. "I saw a joke."

"I wanna see!" She walks around to try and look at his screen. He quickly turns it off before she gets a chance to read anything. 

"You wouldn't think it was funny," he says. "It's about...taxes?" He reaches for the first boring, adult topic he can think of. 

It's enough to dissuade her interest. "Oh, okay," she says. "Can I play Minecraft?"

Thank god for video games. "Have you finished your homework?" He asks. 

"Yes."

"Did your twenty minutes of reading?"

"I did thirty!"

"Did your math worksheet?"

"Ugh, Papa," she grumbles. "I did all my homework."

"Okay," he relents. "You can play for an hour, but then it's wind down time before bed."

"Thank you!" She shouts over her shoulder as she darts back to the living room to boot up his PlayStation. 

The brief interaction is enough to remind him of the most important thing in his life: his daughter. He can't be trading borderline flirtatious texts messages with her teacher of all people and then lying to her about it. He has to be a good dad, good enough to make up for the lack of a second parental figure in her life. 

He puts away the leftovers, washes the dirty dishes, and joins Penelope in the living room. "So how does the mine crafting work?" He teases as he picks up a second controller to join the game. 

"Papa," Penny draws out the vowels. "It's Minecraft not mine crafting." It's the same response every time he makes the joke. It never gets old. 

"Oh!" He pretends to be shocked. "I can't believe I had it wrong. My bad."

They play side by side for the next hour, Penelope digging some sort of pit and spawning various creatures into it and Mark working on a scale recreation of Fort Douaumont. He doesn't quite understand the appeal of the chaotic method in which she plays the game, but he enjoys building models of prominent historical sites, and she likes it when he plays with her. 

He lets her play for twenty minutes longer than he said she could, and then it's bath time and bedtime. She only insists on three bedtime stories tonight. After she's in bed, he turns on the local news station for background noise while he does his own nighttime reading. 

It isn't until he's getting ready for bed that he looks at his phone again. 

Helly R. 7:19 PM: fuck sry that was inappropriate
Helly R. 7:20 PM: pls ignore that

Helly R. 8:13 PM: ok i guess u r

Helly R. 8:44 PM: message deleted
Helly R. 8:46 PM: message deleted
Helly R. 8:49 PM: message deleted

Helly R. 9:27 PM: I really am sorry. Please ignore all of that. 

Shit. She must have gotten anxious at his lack of response. Without considering the potential ramifications of continuing to text her, he sends a reply. 

Mark S. 10:12 PM: Sorry, I wasn't ignoring you. You didn't do anything wrong.

The response is almost immediate. 

Helly R. 10:13 PM: are you sure?

Mark S. 10:13 PM: I am. 

And then, because he's weak to a pretty face and can't stand to make someone anxious on his account, he sends one more message. 

Mark S. 10:16 PM: You have nothing to worry about. I'll see you at career day. Goodnight. 

Which is how, two weeks later, he finds himself standing in front of every first grader at Kier Eagan Elementary School. He ended up fourth in line, and after listening to the presentations of a firefighter, a nurse, and a dog groomer, he's pretty sure he's going to be the least impressive in the eyes of the children. Gemma would be better at this; she always had a way of getting people to hang onto her every word when discussing topics she loved. 

As he looks out over the sea of little faces, he feels something he hasn't felt at the front of a classroom in years: anxiety, the beginnings of panic blooming behind his sternum. Suddenly his mouth is dry and his palms are sweaty and trembling. And fuck, Mark it's a bunch of six year olds get it together. But he can't open his stupid mouth wide enough to get any words out. He's floundering, and all he can imagine is the kids on the playground making fun of Penny for his inability to speak. God, this is bad. 

Just as he's about to fake an emergency call and run out of the room, a soft hand brushes his elbow. "You forgot your notecard, Mr. Scout," Helly tells him, her voice gentle and empathetic. She presses an index card into his hands, then steps aside. 

Mark doesn't have a notecard. He didn't think to prepare a reference document for a five minute discussion with grade schoolers. Stupid of him. The card instead is a short, handwritten message:

Breathe. You've got this!

Only four words, but the knowledge that Helly went out of her way to support him without making it obvious to anyone else loosens the thread of anxiety in his chest. He closes his eyes, and breathes; he's got this. 

"Hello," he greets the class. "I'm Mr. Scout, I'm Penelope's dad, and I'm a history professor at Ganz College. Now do any of you know what a professor is?" Immediately, Penny's hand shoots into the air and waves around. "Anyone except Penny?" He laughs. 

He watches as his daughter elbows Jim and whispers something in his ear, but the shy boy covers his face with his hands and ignores her urging. Another kid toward the back raises her hand, so Mark points at her. "Isn't a professor a teacher for grown ups?"

"Good answer, a professor is a teacher." He smiles at the girl who answered. "Professors usually teach at colleges or universities, and unlike the teachers you're used to in first grade, most of us only teach one subject. How many of you like history?"

Again, Penny's hand shoots into the air; this time Jim's does as well. A smattering of other children raise their hands, but overall, it's less than a third. 

Mark takes it in stride—he's used to it not being a popular subject. "For those of you who didn't raise your hands, I want you to think for a second, and then I want to know why you don't like history. Think"—he presses his fingers to his temples—"and raise your hand when you have an answer." 

Slowly, a few hands raise. He picks a kid at random. "It's all about old people who don't do anything fun."

Another. "We just have to learn it, we can't do anything with it."

Another. "Too much to memorize."

Another. "They're all dead and boring and it never changes."

Mark nods, "Those are good critiques," he tells the kids. "But I have a follow up question for you guys. If we can't do anything with history, then why do we learn it?" 

Again, Penny's hand shoots into the air. He waits for a few other kids to raise their hands. One of the kids who raised their hand for not liking history raises it again, he points at them. 

"We have to learn it to torture us."

The children laugh and he chuckles along. "I used to think that about math when I was your age," he tells the kids. "But that's not the answer I'm looking for. Anyone else?"

To his surprise, without any prompting from Penny, Jim slowly raises his hand. "What do you think Jim?"

He whispers something too quiet to carry across the room. 

"Can you say that a little louder?" Helly speaks up from the side of the room. "Use your level three voice."

Jim nods and ducks his head, taking a few breaths before speaking up. "We gotta learn history because bad stuff like slavery happened, and if we don't know about it, we can't do better." 

"That's a good answer," Mark approves. "One of the reasons we learn history is to help us make better decisions for the future by learning about both good and bad things that happened in the past. Have any of you ever gotten in trouble for the same thing lots of times?"

There's a murmur of agreement amongst the children. 

"Do your parents tell you you should know better?"

Another noise of assent. 

"That's repeating history," he tells them. "And when you choose not to do something because you got in trouble for it before, that's learning from history. So do you still think you can't do anything with history?"

The kids talk over each other; some of them understanding what he mean and others continuing to insist they hate the topic. Once they've settled, he goes over a few more speaking points and answers a couple questions until it's almost the end of his time. 

"Now, before I'm finished, I have one last thing." He pauses to let the kids whisper curiously among themselves. "I have a homework assignment for you."

Immediately, the whispers turn into groans. From the back, he hears Penelope's mortified, "Papa, no!"

Mark laughs and catches sight of Helly stifling a laugh of her own. "Don't worry, your teachers won't enforce it," he assures the crowd. "And it's fun, I promise."

This earns him a sea of skeptical faces and more whispering, until a kid near the front pipes up, "What is it?" He asks with a small frown. 

"I'm glad you asked," he says with a wide smile. "History is more than memorizing facts about boring dead people. History is about connections across time. So what I want you to do is to ask an older adult in your life what their favorite dessert was as a kid. Then I want you to ask them if they'll make it with you and tell you a story about their childhood."

"Who are we supposed to ask?" Asks a kid near the front. 

"Pick someone older than your parent or guardian," he tells them. "That could be a grandparent, a neighbor, or someone from church for example. But make sure you ask permission from your parent or guardian before talking to people you don't know well." Ever since Gemma died, he refuses to use those terms in the plural unless he knows someone has more than one; a lot of people think he’s weird for it, but he’s had students tell him they appreciated him not assuming they had two parents. 

The kids shoot off a few more rapid fire responses, but after a minute, he's able to head back to his seat. He lets out a sigh of relief, slips the index card into his pocket, and wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks. While it certainly could have gone worse, he doesn't feel good about it. Even if it is only a group of first graders who have already forgotten everything he said, he hates doing a poor job. At least Helly was able to calm him down enough that he got any words out; the last thing he wants is Penelope shouldering the shame of bringing the one adult who floundered. But it's done now, and he can focus on regulating his breathing until he's able to make a beeline to his car. 

There are two more presenters after him: the manager of a local café and someone who does something with computers. Both of them are of more interest than he was, but he can't blame the kids for enjoying talk of pastries and video games more than history. 

After the last speaker, the kids swarm the table of baked treats brought in by the café manager while the adults pack up to leave. Since Mark didn't bring anything with him, he ends up standing awkwardly off to the side. 

"Mr. Scout!" Helly lifts a hand in his direction and waves him over. 

Obediently, he crosses the room to her, his plan to escape to the car forgotten. "I've told you to call me Mark," he reminds her. She broadly gestures toward the children. "Ah, right, that." He scratches the back of his head. "Did you need something?"

"Would you be willing to help with the chairs?" She asks. "Usually the custodian would help with tear down, but he's out today and I don't want to be stuck doing it alone."

Mark looks over at the other first grade teacher. "Your coworker no help?"

"I wrangled both classes while he set up," she tells him. "He's doing the same while I tear down. I got the better deal if you ask me, they'll be on a sugar high after those cookies."

He chuckles. "Don't I know it." And because he still can't say no to a pretty face—and he owes her for saving his ass back there—he says, "Of course I'll help. Where should I put them?"

"I'll get the storage cart out if you want to start folding them," she tells him. 

"Of course." He tries not to let his eyes linger on her ass when she turns her back to him, but fuck, she's... a whole lot of adjectives that are completely inappropriate to think at an elementary school. He shakes his head to clear it, then starts gathering chairs. 

"I really appreciate this, by the way," Helly tells him when she comes back with the storage rack. "I could have done it on my own, but your help means I'll get a five to ten minute break before the kiddos come in for math. Trust me, you don't want to try teaching math after any sort of event."

"I don't want to try teaching math, period," he laughs, handing her an armful of chairs to hang up. "I made it through college algebra because it was a required gen-ed credit, but I passed that class with a C."

She seamlessly stacks the first armful of chairs before reaching for the next. "Well you know what they say about Cs."

"That there's seven of them?"

It takes a second for her to catch his wordplay, but then she's snorting and covering her mouth. "Something like that," she chuckles. "Should I bring the kids back in? I think you missed your calling as a comedian."

He folds another row of chairs to put away. "Oh no," he shakes his head. "I am far too old to change careers. Also, I'm trying not to make my daughter the laughingstock of the first grade class. That would accomplish the opposite."

"She brags about you," Helly tells him as she takes the next armful of chairs from him. "Tells the other kids that, 'My Papa is so cool. He knows about dead people and old guns and big funny words,'" she imitates. 

"That's good." His cheeks warm. "You sound just like her."

"Call it a special talent." She winks. 

Mark's brain short circuits, causing him to drop the chairs he's holding with a clatter. "Shit, sorry!" He snaps himself out of it, then, catching himself, "Sorry for swearing."

She crouches to pick up the fallen chairs—he doesn't look at her ass, he doesn't. "No worse than me," she chuckles, "and anyway"—she gestures to the empty room—"the kids are outside."

"Right, of course." He forces himself to focus on folding chairs and bringing them to the rack. God, he's a mess when given even a little attention. He brings his left thumb to his wedding band and rubs the warm, gold surface. It's a constant reminder of the most important thing in his life—his promise to Gemma: his love for their daughter. 

They rack the last of the chairs together. "That's done." Helly brushes her hands together as if dusting them off. "Thanks again, it's nice to have a big, strong man to help." She winks again and laughs. 

He laughs as well, knowing what she's alluding to. "God, Pen hates it when adults ask for 'big, strong boys' to help with something."

"Don't I know it!" She agrees. "I usually ask for help from someone who's feeling strong today," she tells him. "Kids like to feel useful, and when you only ask for help from a subset of them, then you deprive the others of that sense of connection. So I ask for someone feeling strong or creative or brave or adventurous. Whatever the task calls for. It plays to everyone's strengths."

Mark has to look away to prevent her from seeing the soft smile spreading across his face. "Someone listened when I mentioned the importance of connection," he murmurs. 

"I'm always listening," she states. There's a moment then. One where time stretches and the two of them are acutely aware of the space between them. The idea of a connection surges like electricity, but neither of them move. Eventually, the silence borders on awkward. She clears her throat. "I'm going to put the rack back in the storage room. Do you want to see if there's any cookies left?"

Any excuse to breathe air that doesn’t smell like her is a good one, and who can say no to cookies? “Of course,” he tells her. Before she can say anything else, he turns and strolls across the room. He needs to clear his head. He needs to stop letting his brain wander to the shape of her body. God, he needs to get fucking laid. Vaguely, he makes a note to ask Devon to take Penelope for the night sometime soon. She’ll make a face at him, but will happily set up a little cousin sleepover where both their girls will curl up on Eleanor’s race car bed. 

The table is covered in crumbs and empty cookie boxes that he decides to breakdown and throw away. In the second to last box, he finds one cookie sitting squashed in the corner—a snickerdoodle. He sets it on a napkin, and clears the rest of the table before starting a slow amble back to where Helly is standing. “Here you go," he offers with a flourish. 

“Thanks.” Helly is about to bite into it when she notices his empty hands. "Wait, did you not want one?" She asks. "The café is pretty good."

"There was only one left," he explains. "You did all the hard work, it's yours."

Clearly that's not acceptable to her, she breaks the cookie neatly in two and presses half into his palm. "There's this really advanced concept I teach, you may not have heard of it, it's called sharing."

He accepts the cookie without resistance. “You know, I don’t think I ever got around to that lesson in grad school,” he tells her. “I was too busy learning about the usage of whale bone in women’s corsetry.”

“Damn, I’m really here wasting these kids’ time.” A crumb clings to the corner of her lip as she chews. “To think, they could have been learning about 18th century clothing.”

He clicks his tongue in faux disappointment. “Can’t believe you aren’t enriching their education with highly specialized guest speakers.”

“Oh, but we are, Mr. Scout.” She fucking winks at him again and follows it up by popping the last bite of cookie into her mouth. The pink tip of her tongue flicks out to catch the crumbs sticking to her lips. 

Mark’s train of thought derails entirely. If he keeps looking at her, he’s going to do something stupid like tell her she’s beautiful or touch her face. There’s only one solution. “I should get out of your hair now,” he tells her, taking a few steps toward the door. “I’ll see you around.” 

“Wait.” She holds a hand up to stop him from leaving. 

“What?” 

"About the other week"—she wrings her hands together—"I'm sorry. Both for texting you and freaking out on you. It wasn't appropriate, and it won't happen again."

Part of him wants to take her hands in his and hold them until her anxiety drains away. He wants to tell her he liked texting with her. He shouldn't and doesn't do either. "Don't worry about it," he tells her. 

"Are you sure?" A cute, little furrow forms in her brow. 

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips—her eyes lock onto the motion. "Y-yeah, of course," he clears his throat and averts his eyes. "Honestly? You saved my ass up there today.”

Something in her expression softens. "Language," she teases. “Though I don’t see what that has to do with my inappropriate messages.”

“They weren’t inappropriate,” he rushes to say. “This might sound sad, but I don’t talk to all that many people. Busy schedule between work and Penny, not a lot of time to get out and about.” He shrugs. “If you want, you can text me whenever. I’ve been known to give out sound fatherly advice on occasion.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but at least it might build a little distance between them.

She quirks her eyebrow at him. “You’re being too hard on yourself. You were great up there; the kids loved you.”

He lets out a breath when she doesn’t acknowledge his weird comment—probably for the best. “They think I have the least interesting job in the world,” he counters. “No kid likes history.”

“Yours does.”

“Mine doesn’t count,” he laughs. “Kid had no chance. History professor father and Russian lit professor mother? She was toast before we even picked her name.”

“I think you’d be surprised how many people would like it if they had the right teacher.” Either he’s hallucinating or she’s looking at his mouth. 

“What about you?” He asks, his voice dropping into a lower register. “Did you ever have the right teacher?”

“No.” She’s standing too close. 

The smartwatch around his wrist vibrates to indicate it’s detecting exercise. That’s how far out of his league he is right now; his heart is racing from the slightest innuendo. “Pity,” he says. 

“Certainly.” 

The tension is cut by a bell sounding overhead. “Crap!” She takes a large step away from him. “I have to get back to my classroom, that’s the five minute warning for recess ending.”

Mark clears his throat. “I’m sorry to have kept you,” he apologizes. “I know you were looking forward to your break.”

“No, this was good.” Helly is looking at the floor now. “It was… nice. I don’t talk to many people either. Unless you count the kiddos, but as much as I adore them, it’s not the same, you know?”

He knows all too well. “I do,” he agrees. “I meant what I said about you texting me. I won’t mind if you do.”

“Maybe I will.” A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “I’ll see around, Mark.” She’s out the door before he can respond. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales. His heart is still racing, so he presses his hand to his chest as if that will calm it. This woman does something to him that he hasn’t felt in over six years. It almost hurts too much to think about it. He focuses on his breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—until his heart is no longer trying to gallop away from him. In his other hand, he’s still holding the snickerdoodle half. It’s broken into tiny pieces by now, but that doesn’t stop him from dumping the whole palmful into his mouth at once. Helly is right; the café is good. 

He tries to push her from his mind that night by whipping up one of Gemma’s favorite meals for him and Penny: beef and potato momos in a curry sauce. While he cooks, he tells Penny a story about a time he and Gemma went out to dinner. The waiter had misheard him ask for his food very spicy, and he does not have a high enough spice tolerance for that. By the time Penny is cackling and making fun of him—her mother’s daughter in that moment—he manages to stop thinking about a certain red head. 

The thoughts come back to him later while Penny is in the bath. His phone lights up with a photo and attached caption. 

Helly R. 8:12 PM: image attached
Helly R. 8:12 PM: Congratulations, you are now subscribed to Cloudburst Daily, an automated txting service that provides you with one (or more!) picture of Cloudburst every day! To Unsubscribe text STOP at anytime. Your wishes will be ignored, but thats what u get for hating the perfectest wittle kitty

Mark smiles at the blurry photo of a white cat with its mouth wide open. It’s clearly a cropped selfie because he can see the edge of a tank top, a flash of collarbone, and a strand of red hair. 

Mark S. 8:14 PM: Cute

He doesn’t specify who he means—not even to himself.