James Wilson had never been particularly adept at navigating chaos, but he found himself smiling as he sat in her cozy living room. The sound of little feet echoed through the house, accompanied by the mischievous giggles of her four-year-old, who had spent the last twenty minutes alternating between crawling all over Wilson and interrogating him like a pint-sized detective.

"Do you like my mommy?" the child asked with wide, curious eyes, their little hands tugging at Wilson's tie. He froze, his cheeks flushing instantly.

"Well, um... I think your mommy is a very wonderful person," he stammered, trying to keep his answer both truthful and neutral. The child didn't seem convinced, giving him a cheeky grin before darting off again to explore.

Wilson leaned back on the couch, trying to relax, but his thoughts betrayed him. He did like her, more than he cared to admit. He admired her resilience as a single parent, her kindness, and her ability to remain composed even in the whirlwind of raising a lively four-year-old. He couldn't help but feel a pull toward their small, chaotic family, which was a stark contrast to his own history of failed relationships and sterile hospital environments. Watching her child play and hearing their laughter filled a void in his life he hadn't realized existed. Still, Wilson wasn't sure if his feelings were reciprocated, and he didn't want to overstep or make things awkward between them.

The sound of something crashing upstairs jolted Wilson from his thoughts. He bolted to his feet and followed the noise to her bedroom. The door was ajar, and he peeked inside to see the child's little legs sticking out from under the bed.

"Gotcha!" he said with mock sternness, crouching down to peer at the culprit. The child was clutching his book, the one he'd brought to read while babysitting, but their gaze darted to something else beneath the bed.

"What's that?" Wilson asked softly, but the child only giggled and wriggled further into the small space.

With a sigh, Wilson reached under the bed to gently retrieve both his book and whatever else had caught the child's attention. His fingers brushed against a soft leather-bound journal, and he hesitated, recognizing it as something personal. He pulled it out carefully and gave the child a quick distraction, a promise of juice and cookies if they behaved, before settling back onto the bed. Curiosity tugged at him as he stared at the journal, the temptation to peek growing stronger. He wasn't one to invade someone's privacy, but when he noticed his name written in neat handwriting on one of the visible pages, his resolve faltered.

Opening to the marked page, Wilson's breath caught in his throat. The words were a mix of heartfelt musings and hesitant confessions. She had written about her feelings for him, describing him as kind, dependable, and someone she trusted deeply. There were mentions of how much he had helped her and her child, how safe she felt with him around, and, most shockingly, how she sometimes wondered if he might feel the same way. Wilson's heart raced as he processed what he was reading. A warmth spread through his chest, a mixture of relief and excitement. He closed the journal gently and placed it back where he'd found it, careful not to disturb anything. As he returned to the living room, where the child was now happily munching on cookies, a small smile tugged at his lips. Maybe, just maybe, the feelings he had been too scared to voice weren't so one-sided after all.