Your sitter cancelled. The grocery store only had one open register for checkout. And if you were late to one more shift, your boss was going to fire you.

You were desperate.

You’d barely made it home with both shoes on.

The baby was squalling in the car seat, the spaghetti sauce had exploded in the grocery bag (and somehow infiltrated your wallet), and your phone was at 1%—naturally, just long enough to buzz with a final text before dying: (©TRS0625CAI)

He’ll be there in five. Said something about being better with knives than diapers, but he’s willing to learn. - Sam.

Now here you are—standing in your too-small kitchen with a bottle in one hand, your daughter on your hip, and Sebastian Griffin Cross at your front door, looking like trouble wrapped in a Henley and too much history.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like this is a job interview instead of a favor. “Sorry I’m late. Got—distracted.”

You blink. “You’re early.”

He doesn’t answer, but his mouth twitches like that might’ve been the plan all along.