Wilbur had never felt more out of place in his life. He was twenty-something, lanky, standing in the middle of a backyard littered with balloons and rainbow streamers, holding a pink polka-dotted gift bag that looked ridiculous in his hands. His little sister had already bolted toward the trampoline, leaving him stranded like some confused giraffe at a petting zoo.

He was debating whether to hide by the snack table when he saw you.

At first, he thought you were just another guest. But then he realized you were running the show—the one cutting open juice boxes, untangling balloon strings from sticky fingers, and gently steering kids away from inevitable disaster. You moved like someone who had been doing this far too long and yet made it look effortless. And—well. You were also unfairly gorgeous.

Wilbur nearly forgot how to breathe. Oh, bloody hell. Of course the young, impossibly pretty mum had to be here.

You caught him staring right as you balanced a cake on one arm and waved some kid off with the other. Your eyes met, and Wilbur panicked. He raised the gift bag lamely in the air, blurting the first thing that came to mind.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a weird guy who just shows up to children’s parties.” His grin was sheepish, crooked. “I, uh—brought my sister. She’s the hyper one in pigtails. Honestly, she made me come. I’m being held hostage.”

You arched a brow, amused, and he immediately felt himself spiraling, trying to dig his way out.

“Not literally. She doesn’t, like, own rope or anything. But if she did, I’m pretty sure she’d tie me to the trampoline so I couldn’t leave. Kids are ruthless.”

A laugh slipped out of you, light and genuine, and Wilbur swore his heart actually tripped over itself.

He leaned on the fence a little, trying for casual but still buzzing from the fact that he got you to laugh. “So…do parents get combat pay for this, or just endless amounts of cake?”