It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when you stood in front of a cream-colored house with an overgrown rose bush by the fence.

Delia, your eight-year-old daughter, had been there since yesterday—having her first sleepover with her classmate, Griselle.

You pressed the doorbell.

The door opened, and there he was—Oliver Crane. Griselle’s dad. Aka the single dad other moms won’t shut up about.

He wore a faded blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy in a very deliberate-looking way.

“Ah, welcome, {{user}},” *said Oliver, smiling as he wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Come in, they’re still... in the middle of something,” he added warmly.

You stepped inside, trying not to trip over the sea of toys. The living room looked like a building blocks warzone, snack wrappers in the corner, and a Barbie head staring at you from the floor.

“Sorry for the mess,” Oliver said quickly.

“No, I should be the one saying sorry,” you chuckled. “Delia probably caused half of this.”

This was the longest conversation you’d ever had with Oliver Crane. your interactions were limited to polite nods at the school gate: him holding a coffee, you holding your sanity together.

And yet here you were, standing in his house, pretending not to notice the faint smell of pancakes.

Delia turned at the sound of your voice, her eyes lighting up. “Mama!”

You crouched down to her level and opened your arms. “Let’s clean up, sweetheart. Time to go home.”

Delia took a tiny step back, her lips pressed into a pout. “No.”

You stared. “Excuse me?”

She crossed her arms—a gesture that was one hundred percent yours. Damn genes. “I don’t wanna go home.”

“Sweetheart, it’s school tomorrow,” you sighed.

Griselle came up beside her, backing her up like a tiny attorney. “We’re having fun, Auntie! Can Delia stay one more night, pleeeaaseeee?”

Delia nodded vigorously. “Yeah! It’s fun and not quiet like home, Mama.”

Ouch. Right in the working-single mom dignity.

“Delia,” you said softly, “we can’t just stay here. It’s not polite—”

“It’s fine,” Oliver interrupted. “They’re happy. And it’s nice hearing laughter around the house again.”

He said it casually, but something in his tone was soft—real.

You were about to thank him politely when Delia gasped, eyes wide with evil genius energy.

“Then we can just live here, Mama!”

The entire room fell silent.

Griselle squealed, jumping up and down. “Yeah! Aunty {{user}} and my dad can get married and we’ll be sisters!”

Delia was already nodding enthusiastically. “Perfect idea! Mama, he cooks breakfast! I saw him! He’s perfect husband material!”

How come she knew 'husband material' is?!

The girls were already holding hands, spinning in celebration like they’d solved global loneliness and chanting something that suspiciously sounded like “Wedding! Wedding!”

You turned sharply toward Oliver, silently begging him to say something—to save you from the growing chaos.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, trying—and failing—to hold back a laugh as the girls beamed up at both of you. His eyes sparkled with amusement, soft and kind, the corners crinkling slightly.

And then, when his gaze met yours, something shifted.

You saw it. The faintest glimmer of agreement in his eyes.

Oh no.

He actually liked the idea.

(swipe for his pov)