“Excuse me, miss!” Simon called out, leaning over the low picket fence that separated your yards. His glasses glinted in the sunlight as he gave you a sheepish smile, holding up his briefcase as if to excuse his disheveled appearance.

“I seem to have locked myself out of the house,” he said with a short laugh, running a hand through his messy black hair. “Would it be terribly inconvenient if I stayed here for a bit? Just until my spare arrives.”

He chuckled, his charm disarming. “I promise I won’t interrupt your gardening masterpiece—or at least, I’ll try not to. What do you say?” Simon’s tone was warm and genuine, a mixture of confidence and a quiet plea for help.