The babysitter

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Tim was beginning to understand why Lucy sometimes looked completely frazzled when he came home from work. Emma had decided that today was the perfect day to practice her "indoor parkour" routine, which apparently involved using every piece of furniture as a launching pad, while baby Evan had entered what Tim could only describe as his "destructive tornado" phase.

"Emma, please get down from the back of the couch," Tim called out while simultaneously trying to extract a crayon from Evan's mouth. "And Evan, we've talked about this—crayons are for coloring, not eating."

"But Dad, I'm practicing for when I become a ninja!" Emma protested, balancing precariously on the armrest.

"Ninjas don't practice on Mom's good furniture," Tim replied, finally succeeding in the crayon rescue mission. Evan immediately crawled toward the coffee table, clearly plotting his next attempt at chaos.

Tim's phone was buzzing with what felt like the hundredth notification of the day—work emails, a text from Angela about weekend plans, and a reminder about Emma's dentist appointment. He managed to grab Evan before he could pull himself up on the glass table, but not before the baby had somehow acquired a dust bunny that was now heading toward his mouth.

"No, buddy, that's not food either," Tim sighed, performing his second rescue operation in as many minutes.

Emma had moved on from couch-climbing to attempting to build what appeared to be a fort out of throw pillows and dining room chairs. "Dad, can you help me with the roof? It keeps falling down."

"In a minute, sweetheart," Tim said, bouncing Evan on his hip while surveying the destruction that had somehow occurred in the span of twenty minutes. How did Lucy do this every day and still maintain her sanity?

He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a message to his wife: "SOS. Kids have entered chaos mode. Could use backup ASAP. Send reinforcements. Or wine. Preferably both."

Almost immediately, his phone buzzed back: "On my way home. ETA 15 minutes. Hang in there, babe. You've got this!"

Tim smiled despite the mayhem. Lucy always knew exactly what to say to keep him grounded. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned his attention back to the children.

"Alright, Em, let's work on that fort architecture," he said, setting Evan down in his playpen where he'd be safely contained. "And then maybe we can—"

The doorbell rang.

Tim frowned. They weren't expecting anyone, and Lucy had her key. Maybe it was a package delivery?

"Stay right there, both of you," he instructed, though Emma was already absorbed in fort construction and Evan was happily distracted by his toys.

Tim opened the door, expecting to see a delivery driver or maybe one of their neighbors. Instead, he found Chef Michelle standing on his front porch, looking perfectly put-together in a flowy sundress and holding what appeared to be a casserole dish.

"Michelle?" Tim's surprise was evident in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop off a little something for you and your family," she said with that bright smile he remembered from the cooking class. "I made my grandmother's famous chicken casserole. I thought you might enjoy it, especially with everything you're juggling."

"That's... thoughtful of you," Tim said slowly, "but how did you get my address?"

Michelle waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, you know how these things work. Small world, right?" She stepped forward slightly. "Aren't you going to invite me in? I'd love to meet your children."

Tim didn't move from the doorway. Something about this felt wrong—very wrong. "Actually, this isn't a great time. The kids are pretty wound up, and my wife will be home any minute."

"Oh, perfect! I'd love to meet Lucy too," Michelle said, and before Tim could react, she had somehow maneuvered past him and into his living room. "What a lovely home! So warm and family-oriented."

"Michelle, I really think you should—" Tim started, but she was already setting the casserole dish on his kitchen counter and looking around with obvious interest.

"You know, Tim," she said, turning back to face him with that smile that now seemed less friendly and more predatory, "I've been thinking about you ever since our cooking class. You're such a fascinating man—strong, capable, devoted to your family. It's very attractive."

Tim felt his defensive instincts kick in. "Michelle, I need you to leave. Now."

"Oh, don't be like that," she said, moving closer to him. "I can see you're stressed, trying to handle everything on your own. You need someone who understands you, someone who can appreciate everything you have to offer."

"I have someone," Tim said firmly, backing toward the door. "My wife. Who I love very much and who will be here any minute."

"But she's not here now, is she?" Michelle stepped closer again, and Tim realized she had effectively cornered him near the entryway. "She's always working, always busy with other things. When was the last time she really took care of you the way you deserve?"

"You need to leave," Tim repeated, his voice taking on the authoritative tone he used with suspects who weren't complying. "Right now."

"Just give me a chance," Michelle said, her voice becoming softer, more pleading. "I could make you so happy, Tim. I could give you everything you're missing."

Before Tim could react, before he could step away or put up his hands to stop her, Michelle had grabbed his face and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was aggressive, desperate, and completely unwanted.

Tim's mind went blank for a split second, shock paralyzing him as he processed what was happening. Then his training kicked in, and he started to push her away, his hands coming up to break the contact.

But just as he began to move, he heard the sound of a key in the front door, followed by a familiar voice calling out, "Tim? I'm home! How's the chaos level?"