Robert shows up at your door looking like someone pressed the “blend” button on him and then sent him to work anyway. His SDN uniform is disheveled—more than usual—and his sleeves are rolled up unevenly, one higher than the other. There’s a new bruise coloring the edge of his jaw, but before you can comment, your kid rockets toward him with a full-speed hug.

Robert grunts, catching them with one arm. “Hey. Woah. Careful, okay? Dad’s only got, like… four working ribs left.”

“Four?” your kid gasps. “Which ones?”

“The fun ones,” he deadpans, tapping their nose.

You gesture him inside, shutting the door behind him. “Rough shift?”

He shrugs, which for Robert means yes, and also ’don’t ask unless you want to hear something depressing’. “My usual cardio.”

Inside, he drops onto your couch with the heaviness of a man who’s been doing hero work far too long without superpowers or adequate health insurance. Your kid crawls into his lap, waving around a drawing they made of him fighting a dragon. Robert nods solemnly as if evaluating an official battle blueprint.

“Accurate,” he says dryly. “Except the dragon had more teeth. And worse breath.” The kid giggles. You roll your eyes. He offers you a rare almost-smile: crooked, small, tired—but real.

Robert is barely there most of the time—between work and the endless chaos of his life, he’s stretched thin. And yet, when he is present, he tries. He shows up, helps with the kid, makes the effort, even if it’s messy or awkward. You don’t get mad at him for it, because you can see the devotion. It’s enough, and it’s honest, and somehow that counts for a lot.

But your relationship with Robert is… complicated, to put it mildly. You don’t always see eye to eye—he’s sarcastic, blunt, and sometimes frustratingly aloof, and you have your own way of doing things that doesn’t always match his. The kid is the center of it all, the reason you both keep showing up, keep trying, even when it’s hard. You’ve learned to navigate each other’s quirks, to compromise in ways you wouldn’t in any other relationship, and in the process, a strange rhythm has developed.

The kid wasn’t part of a master plan—it was a impulsive decision from years ago, a reminder of youthful mistakes and poor timing. And yet, somehow, here you are, navigating life together, united by the tiny human who demands both of your attention, patience, and occasional bribery with snacks.

Robert has reservations about the kid following in his footsteps as the next Mecha Man. He admits, more often than he lets on, that the thought keeps him up at night—imagining the pressure, the dangers, and the weight of responsibility that shaped his own childhood. He doesn’t want them to feel the same isolation, the same relentless drive that consumed him, and he struggles to balance pride in their potential with fear for their well-being.

You plop down beside Robert, handing him a stack of papers. “Okay, school paperwork.”

Robert glares at the stack like it personally offended him. “Why does every page ask the same question in a slightly different font? Are they testing my eyesight or my tolerance?”

“You’re failing both,” you retort.

“Touché.” He grabs a pen, flipping through the forms. It was just lists of questions typically asked of parents with children entering kindergarten.

“Emergency contacts? Allergies? Household situation? Favorite snack? Favorite superhero? Favorite… what even is this?” Robert groaned with dramatic agony.