Page 2 of Dad Bod's Daring December

I pause, the weight of her words sinking like stones in my stomach. Sure, it’s not Vegas, but trouble can find its wayanywhere, can’t it? I shrug it off, trying to laugh, but it comes out hollow.

“Careful? Why? Is there something I should know?”

Rosa hesitates, then seems to fold into herself, her earlier openness waning. “Well, someone else had their eye on that house. Just... watch your back, all right?”

The warning hangs between us, unsettling and vague. I thank Rosa and leave with the small stack of DIY books tucked under my arm.

The cool winter air greets me as I step outside, and I draw it deep into my lungs, trying to shake off the unease. Home repairs and plumbing. I focus on these tangible tasks, grounding myself in the reality of leaky faucets and peeling paint.

My car chugs a contented purr as I drive back to the farmhouse. The sun dips low, casting an amber glow over the land that’s now mine. The thought steadies me. I outbid someone… So what? It’s my home now. My sanctuary.

Pulling into the gravel driveway, I take a moment to admire the two-story white farmhouse. It stands proud against the sky, its aged wooden beams holding stories of the past. The porch needs work, and the garden is wild, but it’s mine. All mine.

No one can take this from me, I vow. Whatever shadows might come lurking, I’ll face them head-on. This is where my new life begins, with each plank of wood and every stubborn weed. It’s a duty I’ve taken on willingly, a responsibility I won’t shirk.

I gather my newfound knowledge of home repair, eager to make changes, to fix what’s broken. It’s not just about the house; it’s about fixing me, too, piece by piece.

The low rumble of engines shatters the night’s peace, and my eyes snap open. Darkness wraps around me, but I don’t need light to recognize the sound piercing the quiet Colorado evening. Motorcycles. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my ribs… fast… too fast.

I slip out of bed, my feet finding the cold floorboards as I pad silently toward the window. The curtain is cool and flimsy in my grasp. I part it enough to peer out into the night.

Headlights dance across my lawn, casting wild, elongated shadows that twist and turn with the roaring bikes. At least a dozen of them circle my house like predators. Their laughter and yells slice through the air, discordant and jarring against the backdrop of serene mountain silhouettes. My grass and my gleefully bought and set up Christmas decorations are nothing but a playground for these vandals. The reindeer has deflated along with the snowman, which has tire tracks all over it, and the lights have gone out.

“Idiots,” I whisper to myself in a futile attempt to steady my nerves.

Each motorcycle that tears through my property feels like a direct challenge, a blatant disregard for the sanctity of this place I’ve claimed as mine.

Then, without warning, the night explodes. A shotgun blast echoes, shocking in its loudness, and instinct takes over. I drop to the floor, my hands flying up to protect my head. My heart is a wild thing in my chest, threatening to burst free. The windowsrattle with the force of the sound, and I hear the bikers howling even louder, spurred on by the chaos.

I press my cheek against the cool wood, trying to make myself small, insignificant.

Be careful. It’s not exactly safe out here either.

Rosa’s words from earlier today swirl in my mind, a warning that now feels eerily prophetic.

Safe. The concept seems almost laughable now as I lie prone on my bedroom floor in the house I thought would be my fortress. The house where my new life was supposed to begin, away from the dangers I left behind in Las Vegas.

“Nobody can take this from me,” I mutter.

But as the motorcycles continue their relentless assault outside, tearing up everything I’ve started to build, I wonder if I was wrong. If my sense of duty, my responsibility to this land might come at a cost I didn’t anticipate.

I close my eyes, focusing on the sound of my breath, willing the tremors in my body to stop. This is my home. They can’t have it. They won’t.

Another shotgun blast punctuates the night, and I realize this is no longer about fixing leaky faucets or peeling paint.

It’s about survival.

And I’m terrifyingly unprepared.

Chapter 2

Henry

The rumble of a moving truck breaks the morning stillness, and I scowl at the disturbance. A new neighbor isn’t on my list of wants, not now, not ever. The house next door has been empty for years, a silent companion to my solitude, blending into the quiet as seamlessly as the mountains in the distance.

I watch from behind my living room curtains, a wary sentinel in the comfort of shadows, as the movers haul a couch up the driveway. It’s an intrusion, a crack in the armor of isolation I’ve so carefully crafted.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, resentment creeping into my mouth like the aftertaste of bitter coffee.

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