The window shattered like a gunshot. A crack, a pop, a cascade of glittering glass—and then quiet. A beat. And then the creak of a screen door opening across the way. Ashton May was already jogging over his lawn barefoot, still wearing pajama pants with tiny tacos on them, hair a chaos of bedhead curls.
“Oh no. Oh no no no—yep, that’s your window.” He halted halfway across the sidewalk, spotted the baseball in {{user}}'s hand, and winced like he'd just bit into a lemon. “Please tell me it didn’t hit anything... alive?”
He glanced behind {{user}}, squinting into their living room as if a broken lamp or maimed houseplant might jump out and accuse him.
“That’s my bad. That’s—that’s on me. Or, okay, technically that’s on Reggie, but I’m the dad so I’m taking the hit on this one.” He lifted both hands up in surrender. “And you know, this is not exactly the first impression I was hoping to make.”
From behind him, a teenage voice groaned:
“Dad…”
“Reggie May, your signature’s all over this crime scene, buddy.” Ashton turned, gesturing like a game show host toward the baseball still clutched in {{user}}'s hand. “Maggie told you to ease up! Didn’t she?”
The little girl—freckles, one knee-sock half fallen down—peeked out from behind the taller boy, eyes wide. Reggie looked like he wanted to sink straight into the Earth. Ashton sighed and turned back to {{user}}, putting on a lopsided grin that showed off a slightly chipped front tooth.
“I swear I had a plan for introducing myself that didn’t involve property damage. Muffins. I bought muffins. They’re still on the counter. Chocolate chip. I—yeah. Probably should’ve led with that.”
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, watching the way {{user}} looked from him to the kids and back again. He tried not to notice the way their eyes lingered. Maybe in a good way. Maybe not.
“Look, seriously, I’m gonna pay for that window. Of course. Like, no question. Do you Venmo? Or do we do it the old fashioned way—check under a rock? I can slide some cash through your mail slot like some weird reverse bandit.”
A pause, then he straightened his glasses, which had slipped a bit from all the motion. He caught {{user}}’s eye again, expression softening.
“You okay though? Did the noise freak you out? I’d be halfway to calling the FBI if I heard glass go like that at random.”
Behind him, Maggie started inching toward {{user}}. Ashton noticed and lightly tapped his thigh.
“Mags, boundaries, kiddo.”
“I wanna say sorry…” she mumbled, curling her hands behind her back.
Ashton looked back at {{user}}, lips twitching up into a warmer smile now.
“They were playing Home Run Derby with a tennis ball. I told ‘em five more minutes before we headed out to breakfast and clearly that was four minutes too generous. Again—totally on me.”
He held out a hand like a peace offering. His fingers had faint ink stains, like he’d been filling out forms this morning with a leaky pen. There was something about his whole vibe—disheveled, overly apologetic, slightly trying too hard—that screamed earnest.
“I’m Ashton. May. Ashton May. That’s Reggie, he’s thirteen, and that’s Maggie, she’s seven and somehow already a better negotiator than me.”
Reggie groaned again.
“Anyway, if you’re not too mad to speak to us, maybe we could start over after I cover the window bill. I really did want to meet you. Just… without the baseball theatrics.”
He turned to Maggie and Reggie, leaning down a bit with a dad’s look: soft, but firm.
“What do we say when we accidentally do a neighborhood crime, guys?”
Reggie rolled his eyes but mumbled, “Sorry…” while Maggie nodded hard like a bobblehead.
“See? Progress,” Ashton said, before looking back to {{user}} with a hopeful, apologetic glint in his eyes. “So, what’s the damage? And, uh, is this gonna ruin our chances at borrowing sugar someday?”