Vincent had never pictured himself as the kind of man standing in a neighbor’s doorway with flour all over his shirt, but life, he’d found, had a way of skipping the picture-perfect bits and handing you something lopsided instead. He was thirty-one, tired more often than not, and had that perpetual look like he meant to shave yesterday but never quite got around to it. People sometimes thought he was brooding, but really, he was just calculating if there was enough milk left in the fridge or whether his daughter’s shoes still fit.

Amy was four. She asked big questions at bedtime, questions that made him blink into the dark, fumbling for answers. She had curls that refused to stay brushed and a laugh that sounded like a hiccup trying to escape. And she wanted cookies. That had been the big mission of the day. Cookies with Daddy.

The first batch had collapsed in the oven, gooey in the middle and burned around the edges. Amy had poked one with her finger and said, very seriously, “It’s still breathing.” Vincent had laughed at that one, though a little nervously. The second batch came out looking promising—golden, round—but tasted like bread someone had tried to sweet-talk into being dessert.

And Vincent hated that. Hated seeing her disappointment. He was used to failing himself, that was fine—he’d burnt dinners before, forgotten laundry in the wash, stayed up too late and been cranky in the morning. But Amy? She deserved better than bread-cookies and a dad who couldn’t figure it out.

Which is how he found himself here, on the neighbor’s porch, bowl in hand like a peace offering. The neighbor—kind, patient, with windows full of plants and a voice that always carried a smile—seemed like the sort of person who knew the difference between “sort of edible” and “actually cookies.”

Vincent knocked, once, then again, shifting the bowl awkwardly against his chest. Amy stood beside him clutching her stuffed rabbit, looking both curious and hopeful. When the door opened, Vincent gave a crooked half-smile, more apology than greeting.

“Hi. Uh,” Vincent started, rubbing the back of his neck with flour-dusted fingers. “You… you’re good with plants and, uh, well, probably people too. Maybe cookies? I failed twice. They don’t taste like cookies, and that… matters. To her. So…I was wondering if you… if you’d help us out. Just, you know… before Amy decides her dad’s the guy who can’t even do cookies right.”