I stared at Raphael for all of three seconds before my mouth betrayed me completely.
"Yes," I said—too fast, too sure, like I'd forgotten who I was and how bad I was at anything involving children. "I’d like that."
The words hovered in the air between us, weighty and irreversible, like I’d just signed up for something without reading the terms and conditions.
Saturday morning arrived like a hangover's prettier cousin—bright, demanding, and completely unavoidable.
I stood outside the toy store entrance, wearing jeans and a t-shirt that screamed "I have no idea what I'm doing with children" while couples with strollers gave me sympathetic looks.
The mall was what happened when capitalism fucked a rainbow and had a baby—primary colors assaulted from every direction, and the background music sounded like someone had weaponized happiness.
"Dakota!"
I turned to see Raphael approaching with a tiny human who looked like she'd been assembled from pure chaos and determination.
Lily Sullivan had her father's dark hair but none of his reserve. She was practically vibrating with energy, wearing a dinosaur t-shirt and light-up sneakers that probably violated several photosensitivity laws.
"You came!" She launched herself at me like a heat-seeking missile, and I barely managed to catch her. "Daddy's really bad at picking gifts, and I always dreamed of having a woman help me with these things."
Christ. The kid had emotional artillery and wasn't afraid to use it.
"He can't be that bad," I said, setting her down before my ovaries could start getting ideas.
"Last year he got Emma a calculator," Lily said solemnly. "A CALCULATOR. For a six-year-old's birthday."
I shot Raphael a look. He had the decency to look mildly embarrassed.
"It was a pink calculator," he defended. "Very age-appropriate."
"Daddy, that's not how birthdays work," Lily informed him with the patient tone of someone who'd had this conversation before. "Come on, Dakota. We need to find something AMAZING for Sophie."
And just like that, I was being dragged into toy store hell by a seven-year-old with opinions.
Here's what nobody tells you about shopping with kids: they're fucking ruthless. Lily evaluated every potential gift like she was conducting a doctoral defense. The Barbie dream house? "Too pink. Sophie hates pink." The science kit? "She already has three." The art supplies? "Maybe, but what if she's bad at art and it makes her sad?"
"Kid's got a point," I found myself saying, genuinely invested in this retail reconnaissance mission. "Nobody wants a gift that highlights their inadequacies."
Lily beamed at me like I'd just solved world hunger. "EXACTLY. See, Daddy? Dakota gets it."
We spent forty minutes debating the philosophical implications of various toys while Raphael watched from a safe distance, occasionally offering suggestions that Lily shot down with the efficiency of a tiny dictator.
Finally, we settled on a build-your-own-robot kit that came with stickers and LED lights. Educational but fun. Practical but cool. The perfect balance of "your parents will approve" and "you'll actually want to play with this."
"This is perfect," Lily declared, hugging the box. "Sophie loves robots AND stickers. She's going to flip out."
"Solid choice," I agreed, weirdly proud of our selection. "Maximum joy, minimum disappointment."
Raphael appeared at the checkout line, credit card already in hand. "Thank you," he said quietly while Lily was distracted by a display of bouncy balls. "She's been anxious about this all week."
"It's just a gift," I said, uncomfortable with the softness in his voice.
"It's not." His eyes met mine, and for a second, I saw past the CEO armor. "It's her wanting to be a good friend. Wanting to fit in. Wanting to get it right."
Oh. Oh, fuck. I was not prepared for Raphael Sullivan to have feelings about his daughter's social anxiety.
Something in my chest shifted—too fast, too deep. I wasn’t used to seeing this side of him, and definitely not ready for how much it softened the sharp edges I’d built around my opinion of him.
By the time we got to lunch, I was still recalibrating.
Lunch was at one of those family restaurants where the menu had more pictures than words and everything came with a side of chaos.
Lily ordered chicken fingers with the seriousness of someone negotiating a hostage situation, then launched into a stream-of-consciousness monologue about her life.
"And then Marcus said that dinosaurs couldn't be purple but I said how does he KNOW? Were you there, Marcus? Did you personally meet every dinosaur? No? Then shut up about purple dinosaurs." She paused to breathe and steal one of my fries. "Do you like dinosaurs, Dakota?"
"They're pretty cool," I admitted. "Especially the ones with ridiculous names."
"Like Dracorex Hogwartsia!" She practically shrieked with delight. "It means Dragon King of Hogwarts! Scientists are such nerds."
"Says the seven-year-old who knows Latin dinosaur names," I pointed out.
"I get it from Uncle Titus," she said proudly. "He taught me about etymology. That's the study of word origins."
Of course he did. Of course Titus was teaching his niece about etymology instead of, I don't know, normal uncle things like how to ride a bike or whatever.
"Uncle Stephen says I'm going to be a CEO like Daddy," Lily continued, "but I think I want to be like Uncle Titus. Or maybe a paleontologist. Or a robot designer. Or all of them."
"Ambitious," I said. "I like it."
"What do you do?" she asked, those dark eyes suddenly laser-focused on me.
"I'm an architect. I work with your dad and uncles."
"Are you good at it?"
"I'm fucking phenomenal at it," I said, then immediately panicked. "I mean—"
"It's okay," Lily said conspiratorially. "Daddy says worse words when he thinks I'm not listening. Usually when he's on the phone with Uncle Stephen."
Raphael choked on his water. "Lily—"
"What? It's true." She turned back to me. "Are you Daddy's girlfriend?"
The table went silent. Even the ambient restaurant noise seemed to pause for this moment of absolute mortification.
"We work together," I said carefully.
"But you're here," Lily pointed out with devastating logic. "And Daddy never brings work people to lunch. And he's wearing his nice shirt."
I glanced at Raphael, who was indeed wearing what could be classified as a nice shirt. The traitor.
"It's complicated," Raphael said, which was apparently his go-to response for difficult questions.
"Adults always say that when they don't want to explain things," Lily observed. "But I'm seven. I understand complicated. Like how Sophie's parents are divorced but still friends, or how Marcus has two moms, or how Emma's dad is actually her stepdad but she calls him Dad anyway because he's the one who taught her to ride a bike."
Jesus. Kids these days were too smart for their own good.
"In about an hour, we'll drop Lily off at the birthday party," Raphael said, smoothly changing the subject with CEO precision. "She can't wait to give Sophie the gift."
"It's going to be the BEST gift," Lily confirmed. "Thanks to Dakota."
"Team effort," I said, weirdly touched by her enthusiasm.
Raphael's eyes met mine across the table. "I'll be free for the rest of the evening."
The weight of that statement—the invitation, the promise, the quiet claim—hit me like a shot of espresso to the nervous system.
This wasn't just about sex or the weird polyamorous situation I'd stumbled into. This was Raphael Sullivan clearing his Saturday night for me. Making space. Making time.
Making me care about things I had no business caring about.
I watched him help Lily with her juice box, patient and gentle in a way that made my chest tight.
Watched her chatter about her friends and her teachers and her plans to build the world's first purple dinosaur robot.
Watched them together and felt something dangerous and unstoppable blooming in my chest.
This was supposed to be simple. Fuck the hot brothers. Prove myself professionally. Save the firm. Not... whatever this was. Not caring about bedtime stories and birthday parties and the way Raphael's entire face changed when his daughter laughed.