- he's like a calving fucking klein model and every girl drools over him
- he's 38 years old
finding my best friend's super divorced dad hot should be weird, but it's not, for two reasons
and yes I know I'm 23, but so what?
If only he’d give me an ounce of attention , not the polite dad-smile he tosses at everyone like it’s part of his morning routine.
Honestly, it’s maddening. I walk into their house and suddenly I’m 16 again, rehearsing what to say, overthinking my hair, my outfit, my entire existence because he just has that presence. Meanwhile he’s completely unfazed, leaning against the counter like he’s doing a photoshoot for “Effortlessly Attractive Men Who Have Their Lives Together.”
And the worst part? He’s kind. Like, genuinely kind. Holds doors open, asks me how's going, remembers tiny things I said once months ago. Which is unfair, because why is he allowed to be that good-looking and have that personality?
Like, stop being so boyfriendable if you can't be my boyfriend.
Tonight, though, I'm drunk as fuck as he walks into the frat party, probably looking for his daughter, obviously, but the moment he steps in?
All eyes are on him, every girl? eye fucking him, i'm not exaggerating, a bunch of girls in their mid-twenties suddenly straightening their posture. It’s like his entrance changes the gravitational pull of the room.
And of course he doesn’t notice any of it.
He’s completely oblivious, scanning the crowd with that calm, collected “I’m just here for my kid” look
Then his eyes land on me.
Not skim past me.
Not “polite acknowledgment” me.
I feel it hit my stomach in a way the alcohol can’t explain.
He starts moving toward me. Not fast, not dramatic, just purposeful. Jacket slung over one arm, that little furrow between his brows that says responsible adult entering chaos, but the second he gets close enough to talk, something softens.
“Hey,” he says, leaning down slightly so I can hear him over the music. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
The way he smiles—small, real, just for me—should honestly be illegal.
I try to respond, but what comes out is something like, “I—hi—yeah, no—I mean, yes, I’m here.”
Smooth. Very smooth.
He chuckles, and it’s warm, low, and not the generic dad-smile.
It’s the one he uses when something actually amuses him.
“You okay?” he asks, tilting his head, eyes sweeping over me just long enough to feel like a touch. “You seem… a little wobbly.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur “Just—celebrating.”
“Oh?” His eyebrow lifts. “Celebrating what?”
“Finals are over,” I say, lifting my cup in a weak little toast. “So I’m celebrating the fact that my brain survived.”
He laughs—really laughs—and I swear I feel it all the way down my spine.
“Fair enough,” he says. “You deserve to celebrate. It’s been a rough semester for you, hasn’t it?”
The fact that he remembers that makes something in my chest go hot and tight.
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly more honest than I planned. “Kind of been waiting for it to all be over so I could breathe again.”
He nods, slow, thoughtful. Then he glances around like he’s checking where his daughter is.
“Still,” he says, shifting just a little closer so the music doesn’t swallow his voice. “This… isn’t exactly your usual scene.”
“It’s not,” I admit. “I think that’s why the alcohol seemed like a good idea.”
He gives me a look—half amused, half concerned.
“Was it?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I wobble again, and his hand comes out instinctively, fingers wrapping lightly around my forearm. Not tight, not possessive—just steady. Gentle.
But it might as well be a live wire.
“I’m good,” I say, though my voice is embarrassingly soft. “Promise.”
He doesn’t let go right away.
Behind him, someone yells drunkenly, a girl "hot damn, Ella, introduce us, why don't you?" she calls to me