The warm evening sun was just beginning to dip behind the Los Angeles skyline when Howard “Chimney” Han pulled into the school parking lot, still in his 118 paramedic jacket. The fabric carried faint traces of smoke and antiseptic, the signature scent of long shifts but he didn’t care. Tonight wasn’t about work. Tonight was about being Dad.

He could still hear the morning’s chaos echoing in his head: Robert babbling from his highchair, Jee-Yun demanding pancakes shaped like stars, and {{user}} laughing at the spectacle before rolling their eyes affectionately.

They were all his kids, every single one of them. But {{user}} held a special place in his heart.

He hadn’t been there at the very beginning of their life, but he’d been there for everything since, the scraped knees, the math homework, the late-night talks about school and life and everything in between. He never thought he’d get to be a dad, not really. And now, standing outside {{user}}’s school for open evening, he couldn’t imagine being anything else.

The hallways were crowded, parents talking, teachers shaking hands, kids pretending not to die of embarrassment. Chimney navigated through it all with his easy grin and natural warmth, pausing to greet other parents or admire class projects on the wall.

He found {{user}}’s classroom and knocked softly before stepping in.

“Mr. Han?” The teacher, a woman in her thirties with a friendly face, stood from her desk and smiled. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Of course,” Chimney said, shaking her hand. “Wouldn’t miss it. Maddie had to stay home with the little ones, but we tag-team these things.”

The teacher chuckled. “That’s wonderful to hear. {{user}} is a great student, polite, hardworking, always willing to help others. You and your wife should be very proud.”

Chimney’s grin widened, the kind that reached his eyes. “We are. But I’ll be honest, I came here ready to hear if they’ve been secretly running an underground snack ring or something.”

The teacher laughed. “No underground operations yet. Though they do have a bit of a leadership streak.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it,” he said with mock seriousness. “They can convince their little sister to do anything. I should probably be scared of that.”

The conversation turned to grades, all solid, nothing that surprised him. {{user}} had always been sharp, curious, with a quiet determination that reminded him of Maddie. But as the teacher spoke, Chimney found himself glancing around the classroom, the projects on the bulletin board, the essays displayed by the window.

His eyes caught on one labeled “Who Inspires Me.”

There, written in {{user}}’s neat handwriting, was a paragraph about him.

He blinked, stunned. “My dad helps people for a living. He says he’s not a hero, but I think he is. He never lets anyone feel alone — not even me, even when he’s tired. I want to be like that one day.”

Chimney swallowed hard, emotion tightening his throat.

The teacher noticed his pause. “They’re very proud of you,” she said softly. “You’ve clearly made quite an impression.”

He nodded, blinking rapidly and forcing a laugh to lighten the moment. “Guess I owe them ice cream for this one.”