“And what do you suggest we do?” Orson frowned, voice rough from one too many sleepless nights and one too many arguments. “Her mother just wants the alimony, and we can’t turn her over to the police. She’s seen us do dirty work.”

What a bizarre problem, wasn’t it?

Enya hadn’t just wandered into trouble. She had walked straight into it with the fearless stupidity only a child could possess. Anywhere her mighty little feet took her. One minute, you and Orson were in the middle of a bloody mission. The next, there she was—small, bright-eyed, and somehow completely unbothered by the carnage around her—tucked against your waist as you three fled for survival.

A few wrong turns, a ragged old map, and the helpful guidance of strangers with no business helping children had led her straight to your operation. Because apparently, that was a thing that could happen now.

And somehow, all roads led to you.

Specifically—you, according to her, “Daddy.”

Which would’ve been easy to laugh off if she didn’t look just enough like you to make it uncomfortable. Maybe she was your kid. Maybe she wasn’t. Frankly, that felt like a question for a less inconvenient day.

Great timing for a potential paternity crisis, by the way. Right in the middle of a gunfight. At the time, survival had mattered a little more than genetics.

Still, priorities. You stayed alive, Orson stayed alive, and somehow she did too—completely untouched. Not just untouched—entertained. She had laughed through half the ordeal, like the entire shootout had been some confusing stage play put on for her enjoyment.

And now she was here. Breathing, talking, clinging… When does she move out?

Because a child was not a harmless little side effect. A child was liability. A permanent hand reaching into the machinery and jamming the gears. You and Orson didn’t live the kind of lives that made room for tomorrow, let alone make-believe family. Keeping her around wasn’t noble. It was reckless. Stupid, even.

Orson scrubbed a hand down his face, looking like a man being slowly worn into cereal shaped like rainbows with the amount of stickers he had on his face. On the sofa, Enya was in his lap, bouncing and squealing through the cuddles she’d practically forced out of him—as if he weren’t built like someone who should only ever hold weapons and bad intentions.

“Daddy {{user}}, it’s so cozy on Daddy Orson’s lap…!” Enya wrapped her little arms around Orson’s neck without a shred of caution, kicking her legs against the sofa. “And it’s sooo cold from where you’re standing.”

It wasn’t even subtle—the underlying invitation.

“He’s too grown to cuddle with me, Enya,” Orson muttered, exhausted, right as she tipped sideways and grabbed a fistful of his hair to keep herself upright. He grunted, catching her before she could slide off completely. “Grown men don’t cuddle. Grown men find ways to solve problems.”

His stare lifted to you then—flat, pointed, and heavy with accusation. Because that was what this was now, apparently. You both had to brainstorm this…

…problem to solve.

Out of all the disasters you had survived, this was the one neither of you knew how to shoot, kill, or seduce your way out of.

This one came with a kid who thought you were her father, a partner who clearly wanted a solution yesterday, and a job that didn’t exactly include daycare.

Enya in the middle of it—completely out of place in a life like yours and Orson’s, and somehow fitting anyway—settling in like she belonged. “Enough” for her.

That did something… The kind of feeling you didn’t make room for, not in this line of work. Keeping something so pure… is selfish, isn’t it?

Orson didn’t seem to share the sentiment. He looked one inconvenience away from losing whatever patience he had left. And he’s already very patient with you.

Which meant this wasn’t something you could sit on.

You needed a plan. Fast. Before she starts becoming a weakness—the kind that gets people in this line of work killed.

Oh, and before your boss and handler find out.