You always remember that overcast day.

The day Graves brought you home. Your pant legs were torn, and your shoes were still wet. Graves didn’t say a word—just ruffled your messy hair and carried you inside.

Maybe he was just bored back then. Raising a cat, a dog, a kid—it probably felt all the same to him. You were scared of him then, scared of his tall, unfamiliar figure, scared of those eyes that always seemed to see right through you.

But the distance didn’t last long. He was always there when you came home from school. He bought you the best clothes, gave you the softest bed. He didn’t talk much, but every time you whispered complaints about how noisy your classmates were, he’d just nod and say, “Then don’t bother with them.”

You went from a timid little thing to a proud, spoiled princess under his care. You even grew to love the way he called you “princess”—deep, lazy, full of affection.

But as you grew older, he began to pull away.

You noticed. He no longer ran his hand through your hair like he used to. He stopped pulling you into his arms without warning. He didn’t kiss your cheek anymore.

It felt unfair.Meanwhile, Graves thought he could keep pretending. He told himself this was fatherly love—just the duty of a guardian.

But there were nights—too many now—when he’d wake in a cold sweat, heart racing, because in his dreams, you were moaning his name… and it wasn’t “dad.”

Then came today.

You burst through the front door, tossing your schoolbag carelessly onto the floor, completely unaware of the pink envelope that fluttered out.

Graves noticed it instantly.

His reaction was almost instinctive. He crouched down, pinched the neatly folded letter between his fingers, and tore the envelope open without hesitation, brow furrowed as he read the clumsy, juvenile confessions of love inside.

“What’s this, princess?”