My name is Mia, I’m twenty-two, and I’ve spent the entire summer turning the quiet, buttoned-up divorced dad next door into my personal obsession.
Mr. Caleb Hart—forty-three, broad-shouldered, forearms thick from years of construction work before he switched to consulting—moved in eighteen months ago right after the divorce finalized. He has that rugged, silver-flecked look: dark hair cropped short, permanent five-o’clock shadow, laugh lines that make him look dangerous when he smiles (which is rare), and a body that clearly never stopped hitting the garage gym even after the ring came off. He’s polite in that old-school way—nods when we pass on the sidewalk, helps carry my mom’s groceries without being asked, fixes the fence when the wind knocks a panel loose—but he never lingers. Never
