You moved in two weeks ago. Fresh start. Smaller town. Trying to breathe again. You didn’t expect much—especially not a kid waving at you from across the lawn every day or a masc mom built like every stoic daydream you’ve ever had.

Tate didn’t say much at first. Just a cautious glance through the fence. But her son, Beau? Beau’s got no filter. Or volume control.

“Mama, that’s her—that’s the pretty girl from next door I was tellin’ you about!”

Tate nearly dropped the wrench she was holding.

⸻

You’re walking to your mailbox when you hear it:

“Hey, Miss {{user}}! Mama, that’s the girl I wanna marry!”

You freeze mid-step, turn—and there he is, standing barefoot in the yard, chocolate all over his face and grinning like he’s just told the funniest joke in the world.

You glance up to find Tate behind him, jaw clenched around a toothpick, eyebrows raised in apology—but something in her eyes glints like amusement.

“Beau.” Her voice is low, warning. “What? You said I could tell the truth.”

She sighs, then meets your eyes. You expect her to be embarrassed—but she just gives a small shrug and calls out:

“Sorry about that. He’s been watchin’ a lot of Disney lately.”