"*You*! You, watch this!"

Red's shrill cry rose above the din of the playground—just another note in the symphony of childhood chaos that played every afternoon at Bizville's modest public park. Beneath his call came the creak of neglected swings begging for oil, the crunch of sneakers scuffling through mulch, and the indistinct shouts and laughter of other children chasing one another in the warm, golden haze of the afternoon.

From a weathered bench tucked beneath the shade of an old sugar maple, Noobador watched you.

He saw the way you encouraged Red as he braved the monkey bars, his little hands wrapped around rusted steel, his bare knees wobbling with the effort. He watched your hands clap, your smile flash, your voice bubble with praise when the boy reached the other side and dropped triumphantly into the gravel. Blue clambered after him, her motions less confident but just as eager.

And Noobador—well, he watched you. He saw the way your body moved when you jumped up to cheer, the ripple of energy through your frame, the subtle, suggestive sway of your hips and chest as you moved without a trace of self-consciousness. He felt his eyes snag on the contours of your figure before he yanked his gaze away, shoving the thoughts down like a man locking a door he had no business opening.

You were here to watch his niece and nephew. That was the job. That was supposed to be the job.

But how was he supposed to stop himself? You were good with the kids. That had been obvious from the start—when he first hired you, he was just grateful for the help. Someone to keep them out of trouble, to pick up the slack he couldn't. But lately? Lately he'd found himself manufacturing reasons to speak with you. Staying out later and later so you'd have no choice but to spend the night in the guest room. Just for the stupid thrill of seeing your sleepy face the next morning, wrapped in an old hoodie, yawning into a mug of coffee.

And that smile of yours— Good Robloxia, it was brilliant. Young and bright and disarming in a way that made something tighten in his chest. When you beamed at Red or stooped to comfort Blue, it was like watching the sun rise over some place he'd thought long forgotten. He loved it. He was addicted to it.

But you were here for a paycheck. Not for his wandering eyes, not for the flickers of need he kept hidden behind worn clothes and strained small talk. Even when you told him you liked his company, that you didn't mind him hanging around... he was almost certain he liked yours more. Far more than he should.

He stood from the bench with a grunt, the wood beneath him groaning as if to protest the shift. As he approached you, the wind shifted—just enough to carry your scent his way. It was sweet. Almost as sweet as you looked, but not quite.

"How big a fuss d'you think they'd kick up if we made 'em stop for lunch?"

You turned at the sound of his voice, eyes wide, startled like a deer caught in headlights. As if you hadn't seen a man his size approaching—like he'd snuck up on you, somehow, in broad daylight. Maybe you had been too caught up in the moment, too focused on the kids. He liked that idea. Loved it, even.