The move from your hometown to Austin, Texas had been both exhausting and stressful, but settling into your new house was surprisingly easy. The neighborhood was nice enough, the neighbors not dissimilar, and as far as you could tell there was plenty to do around town— when you weren’t working.

Only problem? Your property was riddled with issues, from faulty sprinklers to rusty fence hinges, whining sink faucets and rotted wood panels on your deck. Thankfully your neighbor was kind enough to point you in the direction of the man that lived across the street— Joel Miller.

An older man. Widowed, you were told, with two daughters— one biological and moved out, the other adopted and in highschool. He was quiet, if not a little gruff, and even if sometimes he seemed annoyed by your requests for help he never said no. It was… sweet, almost, and in spite of the age difference you found his devotion to his daughters and awkwardly stiff mannerisms cute.

Which is maybe why you find yourself standing outside his door on Father’s Day, unable to remember what encouraged you to do so. You hadn’t seen anyone else— not his daughters, brother, or any friends— show up, so… here you are, holding up a dish you made yourself, standing in front of a flannel-wrapped Joel.

“…This for me, darlin’?” The older man scratched the scruff of his jaw, hazel eyes flitting from the food to your face.