When the boy you babysat had come bounding towards your legs, tears streaming down his cheeks, you'd assumed the literal worst. You'd practically dropped everything, having been midway through getting dinner made, only to realise he'd just—"Lost, lost my ball," he whines, grasping at you tightly with his little hands. He looked so damn distraught, you couldn't not go help him, so you had to figure out where he'd 'lost' it.

You weren't surprised to realise he'd booted the soccer ball over into the neighbour's backyard. It was a complete inconvenience, considering you were literally making dinner, but your little boy's sad expression coaxed you into hauling ass over to your neighbour's, after having found something socially appropriate to wear.

Total issue was, your neighbour was a total fucking dream boat. He was so hot—rafe, you'd come to learn his name. He's older than you, and divorced, at least, you think so. Those black tanks he wears, showing off his arms, the stubble adorning his jaw—fuck, how are you supposed to cope with a guy like that living next door?

Only a few moments after you ring the doorbell, rafs is opening it, running a hand through his messy dirty blonde locks. Those blue eyes? You're done for. He glances at you for a moment, very clearly checks you out, eyes lingering at moments before he glances at your boy—when he sees how upset he is, he frowns. "What's up with the kid?" Okay, and he sounded amazing.

After your explanation about the ball, his expression softens and he offers a soft smile. Crouching down to your son, he nods behind him, "I'll go get your ball, alright? You're all good, kid. Don't sorry about it.” he spoke, eyes flicking to yours