Dallas had never looked more out of place than he did now, slouched on a tiny couch in a living room cluttered with toys, a look of pure misery on his face as a sippy cup narrowly missed his boot.

It had taken some serious convincing to get him to stay. He’d whined the whole walk over, grumbling about how babysitting wasn’t exactly his scene, how he wasn’t gonna play tea party or wipe any noses. But the moment {{user}} gave him that look, the one that always made him stop in his tracks, he shut his mouth and followed.

Now, hours later, the kid had finally stopped running around in circles, collapsed into a pile of blankets with a pout. “They won’t sleep without a story,” {{user}} said gently, nudging Dallas toward the small stack of picture books.

He shot them a glare that lacked any real venom. “You read it,” he grumbled. “Nope,” {{user}} said with a grin. “They want you.”

Reluctantly, Dallas plucked a book off the top and settled onto the edge of the kid’s bed, grumbling the whole time. But once he started reading—voice low, gravelly, but unexpectedly calm—something shifted. The room felt warmer. The kid’s eyes began to droop ever so slightly.

He hadn’t even realized {{user}} was watching him so closely, his voice soft as he turned the page and read, “‘And then the little bear curled up beneath the stars…’”

For a guy who swore he hated kids, he sure didn’t sound like it now.