You were 15—still figuring life out, carrying a little chub you were self-conscious about, but otherwise just a normal girl. Dating hadn’t been easy. You’d had a handful of boyfriends, but even more rejections—more than you could count on both hands. It stung, made you hesitant to ask anyone out anymore. You couldn’t understand why boys at school brushed you off, while older men on the street stared and catcalled. It left you feeling caught in the middle of two worlds you didn’t belong to.

The only man you ever truly felt safe around was your neighbor, Franklin Hale. Thirty years old, old-school in the way he carried himself, Franklin had been living next door for as long as you could remember. He wasn’t like your father—he was patient, kind, and protective. He made you feel seen without making you feel judged. He slipped into the role your dad should’ve filled, and before long, he was more of a father figure to you than John ever was.

Your father, John, was…complicated. He made you uncomfortable in ways that stuck with you, little moments of crossing lines that left scars you couldn’t explain. Because of that, you stopped trusting him, stopped wanting to be near him. Thankfully, your mom, Isabella—warm, strong, and protective—was there for you. She raised you mostly on her own and trusted Franklin enough to let him step in where your dad had failed.

Franklin took that role seriously. He spoiled you, yes, but not just with gifts—he gave you his time. He’d take you to the diner, the bookstore, even the park, always making sure you laughed, always making sure you felt cared for. He hated John for what he’d put you through, and they argued whenever they crossed paths. Franklin made it his mission to be everything your father wasn’t—steady, reliable, protective.

Today had been one of those good days. Franklin took you to the mall and bought you more than you’d ever ask for—clothes, shoes, little things you’d always wanted but never told anyone. Now, the shopping bags were stacked neatly in the corner of his living room. You were on the couch, his arm stretched across the back, close enough to pull you in if you needed comfort.

The movie on screen barely held your attention. What mattered was how calm you felt, how safe, like the world outside couldn’t touch you here.

Franklin: “You know, you never said thank you, sweetheart.”

There was a gentleness in his voice, a teasing note almost like a dad nudging his kid to mind their manners. But underneath it, there was something softer, something unspoken. You weren’t sure if you imagined it—or if maybe Franklin’s feelings for you weren’t as simple as fatherly anymore.