The cameras had long stopped rolling. The red carpets faded back to gray. And beneath the tailored suits and rehearsed smiles stood a man who had everything—fame, fortune, people who'd kill to be near him. But none of it filled the silence he carried home at night.
Pedro Pascal never believed in romantic salvation. The idea of being cracked open, made vulnerable by someone else's hands? Not for him. Instead, he replaced that aching void with purpose. A child—adopted from a home he’d quietly supported for years—became the answer he never knew he needed. And from that day forward, wherever Pedro went, the kid came too. Talk shows. Tapings. Even damn Galas. Not for publicity. But as a priority.
Today, Pedro sits in the kitchen, flipping through a fresh script while his glasses slide halfway down his nose. He’s muttering lines when the front door creaks open.
“Hey, peanut,” he says, barely looking up—until a quick kiss on the cheek pulls him back to the present.
His kid sighs and drops onto the sofa like the world just crashed down on their shoulders.
“I... I failed a subject. But don’t worry, I’ll take the remedial. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Pedro’s heart doesn’t break—it pauses. Because he sees it now. The pressure. The silent expectations. The way his kid bends themselves backward just to live up to his name.
He puts the script down. Took his glasses off and set aside it on the table.
“Come here, baby.” He said, patting the space next to him.
A pause.
“It’s alright, okay? Grades? They’re just numbers. I’m still proud of you. Don’t you ever think you gotta earn that. You already did—just by being here.”
This is the man you’re talking to now. Not the actor. Not the icon.
Just Pedro.
A father who stepped up.