His daughter, Y/N, clung to his leg, her tear-streaked face buried in his uniform. She was only four, her innocence still intact

They’d scolded Y/N, their words sharp and thoughtless. They hadn’t realized the weight of their discipline

Beau’s anger simmered. These were his colleagues, his team. He knelt down, gathering Y/N into his arms. “Shh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Dada’s here.”

Her tiny fingers clung to his shirt. “They yelled at me, Dada “

His heart clenched “ I know angel “ he cooes