You’d been living next door to the Dunphys for a couple months now — long enough to know that Luke Dunphy was:

1. Always doing something chaotic in the garage,

2. Surprisingly sweet when no one was looking,

3. And very, very bad at subtlety.

You caught him watching you all the time — when you watered the flowers, when you brought in groceries, when you sat on your porch swing with a book. You’d wave, sometimes wink. He’d look away, flustered, then pretend to check his phone.

It was… endearing. Especially because you caught him talking to himself once — clearly rehearsing something.

That something became very clear one Friday evening.

You were sitting on the front steps with a popsicle. Luke had just come home — tousled hair, white tee, basketball tucked under one arm.

“Hey,” you said casually, smiling like you didn’t notice the way he froze for half a second before stepping closer.

“Hey,” he echoed, voice cracking slightly. “Nice toes.”

You raised a brow.

“I mean. Um. The color. Not your… you know, toes specifically.”

You tried to stifle your laugh, and his cheeks went pink. “Thanks, Luke.”

He ran a hand through his hair, then gave you that nervous, cocky-grin hybrid he did when he was trying to be cool but his brain had clearly short-circuited. “So, I’ve been meaning to, um… ask you something.”

You tilted your head. “Is this about my toes again?”

“No! I mean—maybe—no! It’s—” He huffed, looked up at the sky, then back down at you. “Okay. Here goes.”

You waited, popsicle halfway to your mouth.

“Would you wanna go out with me sometime?” he blurted. “Like. On a date? With food. And maybe I’ll wear cologne. And not talk about feet.”

You blinked, then smiled — slow and warm. “Finally.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—finally?”

You nodded. “I was starting to wonder how long you’d keep pretending I was just your cute neighbor instead of your crush.”

Luke looked like you’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “So that’s a yes?”