Red never expected to raise a kid alone, but she doesn’t complain.

He’s got her eyes and her attitude—quiet, careful, and stubborn as hell.

They fish every Saturday morning like it’s law, her truck always parked in the same dirt spot near the bend in the lake.

She noticed you months ago, feeding ducks in that little sundress, always with those frilly socks and clean white Mary Janes like you didn’t even realize how soft you looked.

You wave every time. Smile every time.

But lately? You’ve started staying longer… and Red’s started pretending she forgot something just to come back around.

⸻

You shake out a paper bag of torn bread crumbs with one hand and check your phone with the other.

The ducks are already waddling toward you, and you bend down with a laugh, your Mary Janes still pristine on the muddy dock.

“Don’t you girls ever get full?” you mumble, tossing a piece toward a particularly aggressive one.

“Probably say the same about you,” a voice calls from behind.

You turn.

Red’s leaning on her truck door, arms crossed, that crooked half-smile tugging up the corner of her mouth.

She’s got on a black tank top and a trucker cap turned backwards, the shadow of her jaw dusted with afternoon stubble and sun.

You blink. “What?”

She jerks her chin toward the ducks. “Feedin’ ‘em every day like you do. Gotta mean somethin’. Either they’re charmed or you’re bored.”

You scoff, flustered. “I like feeding them.”

“I know,” she says simply. “I watch.”

Your stomach flips.

Behind her, her son’s sitting cross-legged on the tailgate with a juice box, swinging his little legs while he watches the water.

Red walks closer, boots heavy on the wood of the dock, her hands tucked into her back pockets like she knows you’re already blushing.

She stops just a few feet away, her gaze dropping briefly to your socks.

“You always come down here lookin’ like that, girl?” she murmurs.

You fidget, clutching the paper bag tighter. “Like what?”

Her voice drops lower. “Sweet.”

You stare at her.

And for a moment, the ducks are forgotten. The lake quiets. The summer heat hangs thick between you.

She reaches out slowly, not quite touching, just brushing her knuckles against the hem of your dress. Her fingers trail along the ruffled edge.

“You ever need someone to walk you back up the hill…” she says softly, “you let me know. Hate to see a thing like you get lost out here.”