The community center smelled like sugar, crayons, and somebody’s over-ambitious essential oils.

You were elbow-deep in frosting, icing cupcakes for your niece’s bake sale fundraiser, when the door clanged open and in walked a man carrying what looked like two industrial-size trays of empanadas.

He was sweating slightly, curls tied back with a red bandana, sleeves rolled up over thick forearms dusted with flour. He looked like he belonged in a kitchen or maybe in the kind of movie where the hot neighbor shows up to fix your sink and accidentally wins your heart. He stopped short when he saw you at the folding table, then smiled, that kind of warm, unbothered smile that said he was always like this, not putting it on for you.

“You’re not one of the usual aunties,” he said lightly.

You glanced up from your cupcake, blinked. “No. Just filling in for mine. She has the flu.”

He nodded, shifting the trays onto the table beside yours. “I’m Dom. My mom runs the bakery down the street, but she pulled something in her back, so I got voluntold.”