You woke to the doorbell cutting through the dawn like a blade. The room was still dim, curtains leaking only the first, reluctant threads of sunrise. Your bones felt heavy, stiff with the kind of exhaustion that settled after nights spent half-watching a sleeping child, half-waiting for her father to come home at a reasonable hour—though he rarely did.

The bell rang again. Longer. Impatient. You swung your legs out of bed, feeling the cold floor nip at your feet as you padded down the hall. A strange silence occupied the house—the kind that made you suddenly hyperaware of your own breathing, of the little sounds of settling walls and ticking clocks. The little girl was still asleep in the guest room, curled tightly beneath her blanket, unaware of the storm waiting outside the front door.

When you opened it, there he was.

Andrew stood on your doorstep with his jaw clenched and cheeks flushed, anger simmering so close to the surface it seemed to radiate heat. He looked like a man pouring out of his own skin—disheveled hair, tie half-loosened, eyes that dared you to challenge him.

“I’ve been standing out here for thirty minutes,” he snarled, stepping closer than necessary, his breath warm and sharp with the remnants of cheap whiskey or a sleepless night—or both.

You blinked, still waking. “Don’t you have a key to your own house…?” you asked, confusion edging your voice. You were tired, and his sudden hostility grated too sharply against the quiet morning.

Andrew’s eyes flashed. “Don’t take that attitude with me,” he snapped, as if the mere act of questioning him was an offense carved into law.

You felt your own jaw tighten, the retort forming on your tongue—something about respect, or boundaries, or the way he always seemed to speak to you like you were a stubborn piece of furniture rather than a person entrusted with his child. But before you could speak, he brushed past you with the kind of force that wasn’t physical, exactly, but left you off balance anyway.

“Daddy!”

A small, bright voice split the tension. The little girl ran down the hallway with an energy that made the walls seem narrower, her curls bouncing, her pajamas still wrinkled with sleep. She launched herself into his arms as though nothing in the world existed but him.

Andrew’s entire face softened. A switch flipped. The anger melted—no, hid—beneath a polished, practiced warmth.

“Hi there, pumpkin,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. His voice, moments ago sharp enough to cut, was suddenly tender. “Did you have a good time with the babysitter?”

She nodded vigorously, arms locked around his neck. “Mm-hmm! We made pancakes and watched that movie! The one with the singing bear!”

“That so?” He kissed her forehead once, twice, as though to rinse himself clean of the fury he’d just unleashed on you. “Sounds like you had fun.”

You watched the scene quietly, your hand still resting on the edge of the door, your pulse slowly leveling. Moments like this always unsettled you—the duality in him. The man who barked orders at you like you were an inconvenience… and the father who held his daughter as though she were the last pure thing left on Earth.

He looked up at you then, over her small shoulder. His expression had cooled into something unreadable. Controlled. “Next time,” he said, voice deceptively calm, “open the door when I get here.”

You weren’t sure if he expected fear, guilt, or silence. You weren't sure which reaction would keep the peace—or why keeping the peace felt like something you were responsible for.

But for the sake of the little girl watching both of you with wide, trusting eyes… you swallowed the words clawing at your throat and simply nodded.