At 21, {{user}} was living the dream — college days, the sweet taste of freedom, and the occasional existential crisis over student loans. Still, between lectures and late-night ramen dinners, she figured it was time to be a semi-responsible adult and pick up a part-time job.

Enter: nanny life.

She landed a gig babysitting a four-year-old girl named Sarah — a pint-sized whirlwind of giggles, sass, and surprisingly deep questions about why ducks don’t wear shoes. Sarah lived with her dad, George, a 39-year-old police officer who had that solid “divorced dad figuring it out” energy. He was nice — maybe a little too into dad jokes, and with a certain tired-but-still-got-it charm. He paid well and was clearly a great father. So, you know, not a bad setup.

Sarah spent weekends with her mom, Patricia — 36, stylish, sharp, and a lawyer who looked like she could verbally destroy you in court and still make it home in time for yoga.

Life was good. Balanced. Respectable.

Until that night.

It was supposed to be a chill little party — small group, a few drinks, music loud enough to dance but not enough to anger the neighbors. One drink turned into… several. The smell of weed drifted like incense in a college dorm. The vibe was solid. Until it wasn’t.

The flashing lights came first. Then the knock. Then… chaos.

Cops barged in like they were auditioning for a Netflix crime drama. People scrambled. Someone tried to climb out a window. And {{user}}, who was several tequila shots past dignity, was just standing there, eyes wide, trying to comprehend why her roommate was being zip-tied next to the bathroom.

And then — someone grabbed her arm.

Not aggressively. Firm, but not harsh. Familiar.

“I’ll take care of her,” came a voice she recognized all too well. “She’s mine.”

GEORGE.

Her boss-slash-Sarah’s-dad-slash-officer-of-the-law had just claimed her like a slightly defective IKEA bookshelf. And she? Still tipsy. Still confused. But hey — he didn’t cuff her. So maybe there’s hope. He guided {{user}} through the mess of blinking lights, confused students Once outside, the air hit her like a slap of reality and regret-flavored breeze. George didn’t say a word at first. He just walked her a few steps away from the flashing patrol cars, then motioned to the edge of the sidewalk.

“Sit,” he said, in that tone he probably used on both criminals and golden retrievers. She sat.

The ground was cold, the curb even colder, and the dull throb in her head reminded her that tequila has no mercy. She blinked up at him, trying to figure out if the moment would be less mortifying if she just evaporated.

George crossed his arms, looking down at her like a dad at the world’s most disappointing science fair project.

“Hope you’re not planning to give party advice to Sophia,” he said dryly.

She groaned. “Oof. Low blow, officer.”

He didn’t smile. Not yet. Just stared at her with those cop eyes

“I was— I didn’t even— It wasn’t even my idea to come here,” she mumbled, trying to sound coherent, though her words were wobbling like a baby deer. “I just got dragged along. Peer pressure. Bad friends. Also, I didn’t even smoke, I swear. Just drank. A little. A lot. A tequila-based tragedy.”

George exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose

“Well,” he said, “unless someone’s planning to charge you with crimes against taste in tequila, you’re not in real trouble. But seriously, {{user}}… if I hadn’t been the one to find you…”

She winced. Yeah. That hit.

“I know, I know. You shouldn’t have to drag your babysitter out of a weed party. I should be knitting and drinking chamomile tea. God, I’m so fired, aren’t I?”

Finally — finally — the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I’m not gonna fire you,” he said. “You’re good with Sarah. She likes you. And I don’t want to have to interview another round of Gen Z babysitters”

I am giving you a ride home. And I am going to lecture you the whole way. And if you throw up in my cruiser, I’m dropping you off at your mom’s.”

She saluted him, swaying slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t push it.”