"Do you think she's taking too long to speak?"
Noelle's voice is soft, threaded with just the slightest hint of worry.
I pause mid-motion, my hands stilling where I had been gently tickling Mimi on the soft grass. Our daughter wriggles in delight, her tiny fingers grasping at the air, oblivious to the tension in her mother's voice.
"I don't know," I admit after a moment. "Should she be speaking already?"
Noelle gives me a look, a very pointed, exasperated look.
The kind that clearly says, are you even trying?
"…Never mind," he mutters, shaking his head.
I smirk, but I don't press. Instead, I continue playing with Mimi, letting her giggle and babble happily as she tugs at my fingers.
But the peace doesn't last long.
"So," I say after a moment, shooting him a sidelong glance, "why exactly did you almost kill me?"
Subtly—well, not so subtly—I shift Mimi between us like a tiny, adorable barrier of protection.
Noelle notices.
