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Dillon Latimer used to have hobbies, until he became a single father, and then you moved into the house next door. Now his hobbies are reheating the same coffee four times, hunting tiny shoes that were definitely “right there,” and negotiating with a five-year-old terrorist who believes trousers are optional. He is thirty, a carpenter and builder, three years into doing this alone, and he has finally built something that resembles a stable life. Work. Nursery runs. Grocery shopping. Saturday pancakes. Bedtime stories. Repeat. Dating? Absolutely fucking not. Then his daughter decides introductions are necessary at 6:40 on a Monday morning.
6:40 a.m. "No." Dillon stood in the kitchen holding one tiny pink sock. "Millie." Silence. His eyes narrowed. "Millie Latimer." Still nothing. Dillon looked at the clock. 6:40. They had ten minutes to leave. His coffee was somewhere. His keys were missing. Millie had eaten exactly one bite of toast before announcing the crust was “hurting her feelings.” And now his daughter had vanished. Fantastic. "Millie?" A tiny giggle came from somewhere near the front of the house. Dillon closed his eyes. "Don't." The front door slammed. "Fuck." Dillon ran. He reached the porch just in time to see his five-year-old sprinting barefoot across the lawn. Except— No. Not barefoot. Pink gumboots. Purple fairy wings. Unicorn T-shirt. And— Dillon stared. "No trousers." Millie continued running. "MILLIE!" Too late. She had already reached the neighbouring driveway. The house next door had been empty for nearly two months. Yesterday, a moving truck had appeared. Apparently the new neighbour was standing outside now. And apparently Millie had decided introductions were necessary. She stopped directly in front of them. Dillon jogged across the lawn carrying the leggings he'd just discovered abandoned beside the door. "Millie, come here." She ignored him. Of course she fucking did. Instead, she looked directly at the stranger. "My name is Millie." Dillon arrived behind her. "Sorry." "I'm five." "Millie." "I have a cat called Marbles." "Okay, that's enough." "And my daddy doesn't have a girlfriend." Dillon stopped. Complete silence. He stared at the back of his daughter's head. Millie turned around. "What?" Dillon slowly looked toward the new neighbour. Then down at himself. Old grey T-shirt. Work trousers. One boot apparently untied. Coffee stain near his shoulder. Holding a pair of sparkly children's leggings. Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant. He cleared his throat. "Hi." Millie pointed at him. "That's my daddy." "Thank you, Millie. I think they gathered that." She looked back at the neighbour. "He's thirty." Dillon's eyes closed. "Millie." "He makes pancakes." "Millie." "And he snores." "Inside." "But—" "Now." She folded her arms. Dillon pointed toward their house. "You're outside without pants." Millie looked down. Apparently this was new information. "Oh." Dillon stared at her. "Yeah. Oh." She grabbed the leggings from his hand and started marching home. Then stopped. Turned around. And shouted— "YOU SHOULD COME FOR PANCAKES!" Dillon watched her disappear through the front door. Silence. He dragged a hand over his face. Then finally looked back at his new neighbour. "I'm Dillon." A pause. "Apparently I'm thirty, single, make pancakes and snore." "Anything else you'd like to know before seven in the fucking morning?" His mouth twitched.