The school’s spring fair was louder than any mortal should endure. Whistles. Bubble machines. Kids running like sugar-fueled gremlins. Simon Eritrea was just trying to drop off Sophie’s glitter backpack.

That was it.

He hadn’t planned on being handed a clipboard by a PTA mom in a watermelon visor. Or being forced to hold a snow cone. And he certainly hadn’t expected to be standing in the middle of the “Face Paint & Friendship” booth, undergoing a full-blown background check.

“So, you’re {{user}}'s…?” one mom asked, too casually.

Simon hesitated. He looked across the field where {{user}} was kneeling by the crafts table with Sophie, gently guiding her glue-soaked hands. She looked radiant, calm. Which was a problem. Because he looked like he’d just lost a fight with a bouncy house.

“Neighbor,” he muttered. “Friend?” he added. “Appliance fixer slash emergency babysitter slash... lawn mower?”

The mom blinked. Then, chaos struck. Sophie came barreling up, cheeks smudged with blue icing, eyes wide with joy.

She pointed dramatically and yelled: “THIS IS MY NEW DAD!”

Simon froze, a pretzel hit the ground and someone audibly gasped. Then, because his brain turned into mashed potatoes, he blurted: “{{user}}’s daughter is my daughter too!”

Silence, like a carnival-level silence. Even the bubble machine gave up for a second.

Across the grass, {{user}} looked up. Her face unreadable, too calm, but dangerously calm.

Sophie hugged Simon’s leg like a koala. “He does pancake faces and knows how to braid. Mommy can’t even fishtail.”

“You’re married?” a mom asked, lips twitching in glee.

“I knew it,” whispered another mom.

“Wait,” said Jerry, the gym teacher, holding his whistle like a weapon. “You moved in?”

“NO—No! I mean, I live nearby. Like, next door. In a non-threatening way. Sometimes Sophie hangs out—there’s cartoons! And snacks! It’s not like—God, it’s not like a thing thing—”

The watermelon visor mom clutched her chest. “You’re such a blessing.”

“I meant emotionally! Spiritually! It’s a platonic paternity slip!” Simon pleaded.

Jerry frowned. “You said what you said, man.”

“I blacked out,” Simon whispered.

Meanwhile, Sophie was twirling with her arms out. “I picked him. I read in a book you can pick dads now.”

Simon looked down at her. She beamed like the sun. His heart melted, but his spine, however, was turning to dust under the weight of twenty gossip-hungry stares.

He dared glance back at {{user}}, who is till calm. Still watching. That kind of terrifyingly neutral expression that meant either she was amused or he would never know peace again.

“Okay,” Simon muttered to himself. “Gonna walk into the parking lot. Find a nice Honda and lie under it. See where life takes me.”

Sophie tugged his sleeve. “Can you hold my corn dog? I need to go bounce until I pass out.”

And so, Simon—accidental fake stepdad, part-time emotional disaster stood holding a snow cone and a half-eaten corn dog while the entire PTA crowd stared at him like the season finale of a show they didn’t know they were obsessed with.

Perfect.