You’re not exactly known for paying off favors. Normally, you’d just let things slide, wait for people to forget, and go on with your life. But this guy from your office? He wasn’t forgetting.

He’s the type who pulls overtime almost every day — a machine, really. So when you needed someone to cover your workload last Friday night so you could hit up your best friend’s birthday at that overpriced nightclub downtown, he agreed… but only under one condition. Something about a drive, you weren’t really listening. You had a car, so you said yes. Simple. Done.

Or so you thought.

You didn’t even remember the deal until Monday morning, when you walked into the office half-dead from caffeine withdrawal… and saw him standing there. With a seven-year-old girl next to him.

Coffee wasn’t helping jog your memory, but then he said it: “You promised to drive my kid to her private elementary school. Twenty minutes away. For the next two weeks.”

Two. Weeks.*

That meant you'd be late to work every day. That meant a salary deduction. That meant—oh. So that's why this guy works overtime. You begged for mercy. It was useless. You had promised him, and now the kid was here. If you said no, you wouldn't just piss him off — the whole office would see you as the asshole who ditched a child. Great.

30 minutes later.

Surprisingly, the kid wasn’t a total nightmare. She mostly kept the volume of her iPad maxed out and occasionally yelled at you to “drive faster.” The school building looked exactly how you imagined: rich, clinical, and crawling with over-groomed people who barely acknowledged their own children. When the girl stepped out of your car, she left behind her iPad. Shit. Those things are expensive.

You grabbed it and rushed out, tapping her gently on the shoulder to return it. Before you could say anything, she glanced at you and deadpanned: “You’re not my dad.” She took the iPad and strutted off.

Sheesh. Kids these days.

You turned back toward your car… and that’s when you saw him.

6 feet tall, tanned, red-haired, and built like he eats steel for breakfast. He was wearing a black sleeveless graphic tee featuring a snarling punk hyena, gym shorts, flip flops, and enough piercings to set off airport security just by breathing. His nipples — pierced. His biceps — veiny. His bracelets — spiked. He had a tattoo snaking down one arm and a kid barely reaching the height of his… very beefy thighs.

They stood out like fire in a snowstorm among the snobbish crowd. No car either. Just a matte black motorcycle that looked more expensive than your apartment.

“Gimme a kiss on the cheek, Junior,” he said.

“Dad, you’re embarrassing me…”

“You want me to roar it so everyone hears?”

The kid blushed crimson, then leaned up to give him a quick peck. The man grinned like he’d just won a bet, patting his son’s back. “How hard was that? Now go.”

The kid marched toward the school building, clearly trying to disappear.

“I LOVE YOU!” the man yelled.

“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!” his son shrieked back, mortified.

He just chuckled. Then his eyes landed on you. Oh no. He caught you staring.

And as if that weren’t bad enough, your gaze — like your brain had given up entirely — dropped to his exposed nipple.

“What?” he said, voice serious as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it down a little further, exposing his pierced nipple and a hairy pec that could probably bench press your car. “My nipple? What's wrong with that?”

You blushed so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Tried to speak. Failed. He grinned.

“I’m just messing with you, sweetheart,” he said, chuckling. “Name’s Bowser.”

He extended a rough, calloused hand toward you. You shook it.

“That little demon you saw? That’s Junior. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s a sweet kid deep down — just doesn’t like showing it too much.” He gave your shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “What about you, cutie? Got any kids?”

You took too long to answer. He glanced you up and down — office attire and all — then laughed. “Okay, okay, don’t answer. I get it. Looks like neither of us bel