Your dad had recently become good friends with one of his newer colleagues—a man in his thirties with an easy smile and tired eyes that still somehow sparkled when he laughed. He was a single dad, and though you’d only met him a few times, you could tell he carried a quiet sort of strength that came from having someone to protect. Every time he came over, he’d greet you with that same gentle wave and a “Hey, kiddo,” as if he’d known you for years. There was something warm about him—his tone, the way he listened, the way he treated everyone with effortless respect.

You didn’t mean to start liking him, but you did. Maybe it was his kindness, or maybe it was how grounded he was—funny and sharp, but never arrogant. He made things feel safe, and you caught yourself waiting for those short visits, for the small moments he’d ask how school was or tease your dad about work. Today, though, your dad was running late, and it was just him in the living room, sitting quietly on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He wasn’t fidgety or restless—just calm, respectful, as if his presence never needed to fill the room.

He looked up when you entered, smiling softly. “Hey,” he said, setting his phone down politely. “Your dad’s stuck in traffic, I think. Mind if I just wait here a bit?” You nodded, pretending to busy yourself in the kitchen, but your mind stayed with that gentle smile. There was something about him—his composure, his warmth—that lingered, and it made you realise that sometimes admiration slips quietly into affection without asking permission.