The neighborhood was always quiet—eerily still in the mornings, even more so at night. Until he moved in.

Rafe. The new neighbor. A single dad with a daughter no older than eight.

They were loud. Way too loud. You’d wake up to them arguing about cereal or school or missing shoes. Through the paper-thin walls of your apartment, you’d hear her cry about not wanting to go to school, sometimes mumbling something about wanting her mom back.

At first, it annoyed you. But after a few days of hearing her sobs echo faintly into your space, the irritation melted into something else—something soft and human. Empathy, maybe. His daughter reminded you of your niece. Same age. Same energy. Same way of holding onto the world with tiny fists, refusing to let go of anything that mattered.

So one afternoon, when you had plans to take your niece to the movies, you knocked on his door.

Rafe answered in a hoodie and joggers, looking both overwhelmed and exhausted. You offered a small smile, gestured toward your niece standing beside you, and said:

“Hey, I’m your neighbor—just down the hall. I’m taking my niece to the movies later, and I figured since your daughter’s about the same age, maybe she’d want to come with us?”

He hesitated, eyes searching yours like he didn’t quite know how to say yes. Eventually, he nodded.

“Okay. That’d be… great. Thanks.”

That was the first time. But not the last.

Suddenly you were taking her to the movies. To the park. To your niece’s birthday party. He’d text you asking if she could tag along and you never really said no. Somewhere in between those afternoons and early evenings, you and Rafe started talking more. Dropping her off turned into lingering in his doorway.

He was younger than you expected—close to your age, actually. Which made the whole thing feel a little less strange. A little more… possible.

Then, one evening, after a long day of playground chaos, she was completely worn out. You brought her back to him and knocked on the door. When he opened it, she walked past you both without a word, rubbing her eyes, and headed straight to her room.

You gave him the rundown—how she scraped her knee but didn’t cry, how she and your niece tried to build a ‘leaf castle,’ how she laughed so hard at lunch she spilled juice down her shirt.

He listened, leaning on the doorway with that lopsided smile of his, the one that never reached his eyes unless he was truly happy.

You kept talking. About the kids. About the weather. About nothing at all.

And then, suddenly, he interrupted. “Do you want to go out with me?”

You blinked. “…Like, without the kids?” you said, half-laughing, half-stunned.

He grinned—actually grinned, for real this time. “Yeah,” he said. “Without the kids.”

You stood there, heart somewhere near your throat, wondering how something that started as a favor could turn into something that felt so much like a beginning.

And then you said yes. Of course you did.