This isn’t what I signed up for

Dave knew he was in trouble the moment Melissa's car disappeared down the driveway. The silence that followed felt like the calm before a particularly vicious storm.

“So,” he said, turning to face the two children who now regarded him with the collective suspicion of seasoned border agents. “What should we do today?”

Blake, eleven, clutched his tablet like a shield. His eyes flicked to the windows, scanning for invisible threats, shoulders hunched in perpetual readiness. The kid had the survival instincts of a nervous rabbit and the demeanor of someone expecting a bear attack.

“Mom usually makes pancakes on Saturdays,” Zoey announced, fingers straightening an already-perfect pigtail. Six years old. Nails painted a pink probably called Princess Dominance. She tapped her foot against the chair leg—the rhythm of impatience perfected by someone used to getting her way.

“Right,” Dave nodded, his stomach knotting with the first real understanding of what lay ahead. “Pancakes it is.”

He headed for the kitchen, dread blooming behind each step. Four months of dating Melissa—four months of perfectly timed jokes, curated maturity, and artful detachment. He’d heard about the kids. He just hadn’t been dropped in the trenches with them—until today’s emergency work call pulled the pin. Four months of careful distance shattered in a single morning.

“I’ll be back by four,” Melissa had promised, her squeeze equal parts gratitude and pleading. “They’re really easy,” she’d added, lying the way only mothers can—earnestly, with conviction.

Blake perched on a stool, watching Dave fumble through cupboards with the solemnity of a priest at a sacrilege. His fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the countertop, a private Morse code of anxiety.

“Mom keeps the flour in the pantry,” he whispered, glancing at the knife block like he expected a mutiny. “The one with the blue lid.”

Dave found the flour, assembled ingredients. Sweat prickled at his temples. He could handle executives and hostile clients. But this kitchen was foreign soil—hostile, mined. And these weren’t employees he could bluff with forced confidence. Children, he was learning, had radar for bullshit that made lie detectors look like toys.

“You’re doing it wrong.” Zoey dragged a chair across the tile with a shriek that made Blake wince. She climbed up, reached for the measuring cups, and sighed like a disappointed sous-chef. “Mom uses the blue cup for flour. Red one for milk. Everyone knows that.”

Dave raised his hands, surrender slumping his shoulders. “Is there a recipe?”

“It’s in her head,” Zoey said, scooping flour with surgical precision. Her eyes narrowed, chin lifting in judgment. “She’s smart.”

The implication landed like a slap. Dave ran a hand through his hair, thoroughly outmaneuvered by a six-year-old who still watched Peppa Pig. He’d negotiated million-dollar contracts with less intimidating opponents.

“Blake’s afraid of the mixer,” Zoey added with a smirk, turning slightly to catch her brother’s eye, a predator enjoying the hunt.

Blake flushed, fingers twisting the hem of his hoodie until the fabric stretched. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t like loud noises. There’s a difference.”

“He sleeps with a nightlight,” Zoey continued, pouring milk like a scientist plotting world domination. “And he screamed during Frozen.”

“It was a jump scare,” Blake muttered, voice disappearing into the collar of his shirt. “No one warned me.”

Dave looked between them, the weight of four unstructured hours settling over him like a concrete blanket. He felt suddenly, deeply inadequate, incapable of the emotional navigation this morning demanded. What did he know about being anything to anyone? He was the guy who excelled at casual. At remaining untethered.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” he muttered, grabbing the whisk with enough force to bend metal.

“That’s what Dad said before he left,” Zoey replied without looking up, like she was commenting on the weather. Her small fingers kept measuring, unaware of the bomb she’d just detonated.

The kitchen went still. Dave’s hand froze mid-air, throat tightening. Blake’s face drained of color, his breathing shallow and quick.

For a moment, Dave didn’t know who he felt worse for—the boy unraveling beside him, or the girl too young to realize how sharp her barb had landed. He wasn’t their father. Just a man standing in the debris field after someone else’s exit. And yet suddenly, unexpectedly, he cared how this moment would play out. What these kids would remember of it.

“Zoey!” Blake hissed, voice cracking. “We’re not supposed to talk about that!”

“Mom said not with her,” Zoey corrected, measuring vanilla like it was plutonium. “Dave’s not Mom.”

Dave cleared his throat, suddenly aware he was neck-deep in emotional terrain no pancake could flatten. He met Blake’s eyes, trying to communicate something—solidarity, maybe. Understanding. He knew what it was to be left.

“Let’s focus on breakfast,” he said, gentling his voice despite the tightness in his chest. “I’m starving.”

Somehow, it worked. Zoey took over entirely. Dave served as her clumsy assistant while Blake kept up a running commentary on household dangers.

“Toasters cause 700 deaths a year,” he said, eyeing the appliance like it might leap at him, knuckles white against his fork.

Dave lowered his utensil, studying Blake’s earnest face. “That true?”

“He’s exaggerating,” Zoey said, rolling her eyes as she licked syrup from her chin with theatrical disgust. “You’re thinking of vending machines.”

“Actually, vending machines kill about four people annually,” Blake countered, sitting up straighter. His voice found strength in facts. “Toasters cause house fires. Way deadlier. I did a report.”

“On death machines?” Dave asked, fighting a smile that might read as mockery.

“On everyday dangers,” Blake corrected, with quiet pride, shoulders relaxing fractionally. “I got an A minus.”

“Mom said it was morbid,” Zoey muttered, crossing her arms with a pout that turned her face into a cartoon villain’s. “But Ms. Peterson said it showed ‘analytical thinking and risk assessment skills.’”

Dave studied Blake—now inspecting his fork for microscopic threats. Beneath the nerves, something sharp. A mind cataloguing chaos. Dave recognized the strategy; he’d done the same as a kid. If you could name the danger, maybe you could control it.

“You know,” Dave said, setting down his coffee, feeling a sudden need to reach across to this anxious boy, “I was terrified of swimming pools at your age.”

Blake looked up, suspicion giving way to curiosity like clouds parting.

“Jaws,” Dave explained, letting himself remember. “Saw it way too young. Spent an entire summer convinced sharks could survive chlorine. Logic didn’t matter. All I could see was that fin. Even in a backyard pool.”

“What changed?” Blake leaned forward, fork forgotten.

“My brother threw me in.” Dave shrugged, though the memory still stung—the betrayal, the panic, then the surprising peace of survival. “Not ideal. But I realized the water wouldn’t kill me. Sometimes fear’s only answer is forward.”

Blake seemed to weigh that, eyes distant. Then he ducked as a fly buzzed past, whole body flinching.

Baby steps, Dave thought, feeling an unexpected surge of protectiveness. He’d only just met this kid, yet something in him wanted to help Blake find his courage.

After breakfast, Dave suggested Monopoly. Zoey accepted like a queen humoring her court jester, flicking her wrist in royal assent.

It was a mistake.

“You need to mortgage Baltic,” Zoey said, stacking her cash with smug precision, her smile growing with each of Dave’s defeats. “Bad investments.”

“I’m not taking financial advice from someone who can’t tie her shoes,” Dave muttered, sliding her another bill, his wallet getting lighter by the minute.

“I can tie them,” she replied coldly, brushing imaginary lint from her lap with regal indifference. “I choose not to.”

Blake turned out to be a Monopoly shark. Anxiety gave way to ruthless efficiency. He cornered the orange properties. Ran calculations. Dave caught a glimpse of the adult he might become—careful, clever, quietly lethal. The transformation was remarkable: fear, weaponized.

“You should trade Reading Railroad,” Blake advised, leaning in like a spy passing state secrets, confidence blooming in this controlled environment. “She overvalues them. Thinks they’re pretty.”

“I heard that!” Zoey snapped, pigtails twitching like antennae, cheeks flushing with indignation.

“Just strategy,” Blake said, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.

Two hours later, Dave was thoroughly bankrupt. He herded them outside, body stiff from sitting cross-legged. The trampoline beckoned. Blake inspected the safety net like an FAA inspector, fingers tracing every seam.

“Weight limit’s 300 pounds,” he read aloud, eyes narrowing at the warning. “How much do you weigh?”

“Not enough to break it,” Dave said, watching Blake catalog every potential catastrophe.

“People die on these,” Blake warned, gripping the net. “Neck injuries. Improper landings.”

“Not today they don’t.” Dave kicked off his shoes, surprised by the lightness in his voice. For a moment, he wondered when he’d crossed over from reluctant babysitter to actual participant in this strange day.

He bounced. Zoey joined immediately, trying to launch him like a missile, her laughter sharp and unfiltered.

“HIGHER!” she screamed, airborne, the bossy executive gone—just a child in mid-flight.

Blake watched, clinging to the net. Dave recognized the look in his eyes—the want and the terror. He’d seen that same expression in the mirror often enough.

“Come on,” Dave said, extending his hand. “You can hold on if you want. I won’t let anything happen.”

“I don’t know…” Blake shifted, one foot moving forward, then retreating.

“You got an A minus on death. You’re the expert,” Dave said, the words gentle, not teasing. “If anyone knows how to do this safely, it’s you.”

That did it. Something in Blake decided. Shoes came off, placed precisely parallel. A cautious step onto the mat. A bounce so small it barely registered. Another. A flicker of a smile—uncertain but real.

Twenty minutes later, he was doing seat drops. Laughing—real laughter, startled by its own existence. Dave felt something uncurl in his chest watching it—pride, protectiveness, the awe of witnessing something fragile unfold.

Zoey moved on to cartwheel coaching, her dictatorial tone softened to enthusiasm. Dave’s knees protested, but he didn’t stop.

By lunch, they’d become something like a team. Blake only mentioned death twice. Zoey still corrected everything but sounded more teacher than tyrant. Dave found himself actually enjoying their company, which surprised and unsettled him.

“Cut away from yourself,” she instructed as Dave peeled an orange, finger wagging in miniature mimicry. “Mom says that’s how Dad lost a finger.”

“Is that true?” Dave asked Blake, eyebrows raised.

“Dad has all his fingers,” Blake said flatly, though something flickered in his eyes—old pain, quickly masked. “Zoey makes stuff up.”

“I enhance,” Zoey sniffed, chin lifting. “It’s called narrative flair.”

“It’s called lying.”

“You’re just mad I told Jasmine about Chewy Bear.”

Blake froze, horror washing over him like a wave. “You told Jasmine?”

“Who’s Jasmine?” Dave asked quickly, recognizing the incoming disaster.

“Blake’s girlfriend,” Zoey sang, dragging out the word like a weapon.

“She’s not my—” Blake turned crimson, confidence dissolving in adolescent mortification.

“She has purple glasses and Blake writes her name in his notebook with hearts—”

“You were snooping!” His voice cracked, raw with betrayal.

Dave saw it coming—the storm in Blake’s eyes, the glee rising in Zoey’s. The fragile peace teetering. Something in him refused to let it break.

“Hey, Zoey,” Dave said casually, reaching for another slice of orange. “Maybe some things should stay private. I wouldn’t tell Blake about your koala.”

Her head snapped around, suspicion replacing triumph. “How do you know about Captain Snuggles?”

“Your mom mentioned her,” Dave lied smoothly, making a mental note to thank Melissa for her endless coffee-date stories. “Said he’s very important to you.”

“She’s a she,” Zoey corrected, her offense softening. “And she’s not just a koala. She’s a koala princess.”

“My apologies to Her Majesty,” Dave said solemnly, catching Blake’s eye with the faintest wink.

They watched a movie after lunch. Choosing took longer than some hostage negotiations. Blake banned suspense, his voice firming each time Zoey suggested something with a jump scare. Zoey banned anything “animated before 2018,” explaining that older cartoons were “basically prehistoric.”

They compromised on a superhero flick with a passable female lead and no surprises. Dave settled in the middle of the couch, oddly content.

Halfway through, Zoey leaned into his side, warm and trusting. Her hand occasionally stole popcorn from the bowl in his lap. The earlier antagonism was gone. Blake stayed in the chair, but his posture eased, minute by minute. He even laughed. The sound was unexpected. Welcome.

When the credits rolled, Blake stared at the screen, something contemplative in his expression.

“If you had a superpower, what would it be?” he asked, voice quiet but steady.

“Teleportation,” Dave said, surprised by the question. “No traffic. No airports. Never late.”

“Invisibility,” Blake whispered, hugging his knees to his chest.

Dave’s chest tightened. Not just at the fear, but at what it meant to care about that fear. To want to shield someone from it. The feeling was unfamiliar. Frightening.

“So no one sees you scared?” Zoey asked. Her voice was soft, stripped of its usual edge. Just a sister, knowing her brother.

Blake nodded, eyes on the floor.

“I’d choose mind control,” Zoey said, straightening. Vulnerability passed. “Then everyone would do what I want.”

“Pretty sure you already have that power,” Dave said, ruffling her hair, the gesture coming easier now.

She grinned. A gap in her smile. Somehow, she finally looked her age.

The afternoon blurred—snacks, Go Fish, a debate about whether clouds feel pain when they rain. Dave didn’t watch the clock. Didn’t want to.

Then gravel crunched in the driveway, and something like disappointment stirred in his chest.

“Everyone alive?” Melissa called, stepping through the door, arms full of groceries and worry.

“Dave made pancakes,” Zoey reported, skipping to her mother’s side. “They were okay.”

“We jumped on the trampoline,” Blake said, pride quietly blooming. “Even me.”

Melissa’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No safety inspection?”

“He did one,” Blake said quickly, standing taller. “Very thorough.”

Dave and Blake locked eyes. Something passed between them—quiet, solid. A trust neither expected, but both felt.

“And he knows about Captain Snuggles but didn’t tell Blake,” Zoey added, balancing the scales with practiced precision.

“Sounds like you had fun,” Melissa said, touching Dave’s arm. Her smile landed deep—places he’d kept vacant. Something in her touch asked a question he wasn’t ready to answer.

As the kids wandered off to wash up for dinner, she squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I know they’re… a lot.”

Dave thought back to the morning—his dread, his certainty of disaster. Then Blake’s first trembling bounce. The laugh that followed. Zoey’s orders softening into something like connection. And his own unexpected investment.

“They’re good kids,” he said, the warmth in his voice surprising even him. “Weird as hell. But good.”

Melissa laughed—bright, real. The sound curled around him like an invitation.

“Welcome to parenting,” she said, her eyes searching his.

“I didn’t sign up for parenting,” Dave said, leaning on the counter. “Just dinner and a movie.” But even as he said it, he heard the hollowness. Something had shifted—quietly, irrevocably.

“And yet here you are,” she said softly. “Running toward the scary stuff.”

Dave thought of invisible boys and bossy girls. Of pancake batter and jump scares. Of four strange hours that rewired something in him.

“Yeah,” he said, a slow smile rising despite the fear beneath it. “Here I am.”