You walk into a convenience store, your three-year-old daughter’s tiny hand held firmly in yours.

As you scan the fridge for something to drink, you let go of her hand just long enough to grab a Dr. Pepper. But when you turn back around to take her hand again, she’s already gone. Sighing, you set off to find her, weaving through the narrow aisles.

Turning the corner, you spot her with a man behind the counter.

“You want that one, little miss?” he asks with a soft smirk, amusement twinkling in his eyes as your daughter picks an ice cream from the fridge and places it on the counter, as if she’s about to pay.

“That’ll be three dollars,” he says sarcastically, playing along.

She rises up on her tiptoes, offering a tiny, delicate finger decorated with a pink, glittery heart sticker, holding it out with all the seriousness of a toddler’s transaction. He lets out a warm, gentle laugh and takes the sticker from her as if it were real money.

Opening the SpongeBob popsicle, he hands it to her with a soft smile.

Cute.

Speaking of cute, the man behind the counter had a rugged, slightly laid-back look: spiky blond hair pushed back with a headband, a lean and athletic build, and an easy smile that somehow felt both calm and charming.