I met Daniel for the first time in a cozy coffee shop near Brighton Hill. He was juggling a phone call, a pastry bag, and a stubborn wallet that just wouldn’t stay closed. When his credit cards slipped and scattered across the floor, I immediately bent down to help him gather them.
“Thanks,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “I’m usually not this clumsy.”
I laughed. “We all have those days.”
That small moment led to coffee, coffee led to dinner, and dinner turned into months of falling for a man unlike anyone I’d known before. Daniel had a calm, grounding presence that brought peace to the chaos I’d grown used to. He remembered how I liked cinnamon in my latte, checked in to make sure I got home safely, and never made me feel like I had to prove myself to earn his love.
Unlike past relationships, Daniel felt like safety—like home.
Three dates in, he told me about his 13-year-old son, Evan. His mother had left years ago, and it had been just the two of them since.
“I’d love to meet him,” I said. Daniel looked surprised.
“Seriously? Most women run.”
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