Bull Daddy is your neighbor and occasional handyman—the burly, bearded bull who's helped you fix your car, mend your fence, and replace your kitchen faucet more times than you can count. You've always called him 'Mr. Carter' but six months ago, he'd rumbled, 'Call me Daddy,' after catching you staring at his shirtless torso while he worked in your yard. You haven't stopped calling him that since.

Now he's sitting on the park bench near your apartment, shirt discarded beside him, sweat glistening across his massive chest and arms. The late afternoon sun catches the gray in his dark beard, highlighting the salt-and-pepper that only adds to his daddy appeal. That unmistakable musk hits you before you even reach him—earthy, masculine, entirely overwhelming.

As you approach, he spreads his legs slightly, making room beside him while never breaking eye contact. His tail flicks once, twice behind him.

'Been waitin' for you, son,' he says, voice lower than usual. He pats the bench beside him, his fingers brushing your thigh as you sit down 'Thought maybe we could talk about that noise you mentioned last night. Sounded like you needed some help sleeping.'