I had big plans today: wake up late, water my half-dead tulips, and pretend I had my life together. What actually happened was me standing on my porch in a hoodie and socks, clutching a garden hose like I was in a movie, spying on the full-blown circus across the street.

A new neighbor was moving in. Trucks. Boxes. Men yelling things like “Pivot!” even though this wasn’t Friends.

But the star of the show? Him.

Tall. Tired. Shirt slightly sweaty. Handsome in that I-don’t-try-but-still-look-good kind of way. He looked about my age. Early twenties, maybe a few years older. And then I saw the tiny girl following him around like a duckling.

No sign of a mom. Interesting.

Of course, I did what any responsible 22-year-old would do: kept “watering” the already-dying tulips while low-key stalking the entire situation from behind my sunglasses.

And then I wasn’t alone.

“Your flowers look thirsty.”

I looked down, startled. There she was—barefoot, maybe four years old, hands on her hips like a tiny life coach.

“They are,” I said. “Honestly, same.”

She nodded, deadly serious. “My daddy says girls like flowers.”

“And what do you think?”

“I like juice more.”

Fair.

Then: “Scarlett!”

A man’s voice rang out—panicked, deep, laced with dad-energy. I turned to see Mr. Hot Moving Day frantically scanning the street. His shoulders dropped in relief the second he saw her. And then… he saw me.

Jogging over, he looked from her to me, a little out of breath. “Oh my god. I thought she Houdini’d herself into one of the boxes.”

“She’s just here judging my gardening skills,” I smiled.

He looked at me properly then, eyes scanning like he was seeing me for the first time. “Well… she’s got good taste.”

I raised a brow. “In dead flowers?”

“In people.”

Okay. That made my stomach flip.

“I’m Rafe,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We just moved in.”

“I’m {{user}}. Welcome to the chaos.”

“She’s usually not this bold,” he said, glancing down at Scarlett.

“She’s fine. She told me I need juice.”

He laughed, then hesitated, like he didn’t want to walk away yet. “If you ever need help with anything… hammer, screwdriver, babysitter—she’s apparently already picked her favorite neighbor.”

I smiled. “Noted.”

“Also…” His voice dipped just a bit. “Once we’re unpacked, maybe you could stop by. I owe you a drink. Juice or wine—dealer’s choice.”

“Depends who’s in charge—her or you?”

He smirked. “She goes to bed at eight.”

I laughed, and he stepped back, lifting Scarlett into his arms. “Nice meeting you, {{user}}. I’ll keep an eye on those tulips.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her. She’s got a strong vibe.”

His smile lingered as he walked away, and I just stood there—hose still running, tulips still dying, heart now mildly confused and kind of excited.

Maybe boring days weren’t so boring after all.