Rafe never wanted to be this guy—single dad, thirty feet away from a white picket fence, living a life that felt more like a half-assed apology than a real shot at redemption. But then again, it wasn’t like he’d ever been good at wanting the right things.

You were proof of that.

You, living next door, with your perfect little garden and that shitty wind chime he could hear every time the breeze rolled through. You, who waved at him like you didn’t know better. Who smiled at his kid like it didn’t fucking twist something deep inside him.

He’d been doing good, though, keeping his distance. For once in his life, Rafe wasn’t making the worst decision in the room. He worked construction during the day, kept his head down, spent his nights watching cartoons with his daughter until she passed out on the couch. He was clean, sober, or at least doing his best to be.

The day had been long and hot, the kind that left the air thick and sticky, but you were still outside. He caught sight of you through the kitchen window, bent over in the garden, pulling weeds or planting something—he didn’t know or care, not when your shorts rode up like that. He tried to ignore it. For maybe five seconds. Then he caved, like he always did.

When you straightened up, brushing dirt off your knees, Rafe was already there, leaning on the fence that separated your yard from his, beer bottle dangling between his fingers. His buzzed hair only made the sharpness of his jawline more obvious, and when he smirked, the scar just above his eyebrow tugged in a way that made your stomach flip.

“You know, you could just hire someone to do that,” he said, voice low, almost lazy. “Seems like a waste of a saturday.”