Your mother, Grace, had gone out for the night—finally taking some time for herself—leaving only you and your father at home. The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of his cup against the counter. He sat hunched slightly over the surface, lost in thought, tracing idle patterns on the wood with his fingers, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

Then, a soft sound cut through the stillness—a careful, almost hesitant padding of small feet across the floor. He froze, his head tilting slightly, listening. Another step, then another, and his pulse quickened with a familiar, inexplicable warmth.

Turning slowly in his stool, his gaze fell on you. You stood framed in the doorway, clutching your worn stuffed dog to your chest, the dim kitchen light catching the glimmer in your wide, innocent eyes. Even in the quiet of the evening, your presence demanded attention, and something inside him softened, his rough exterior melting just a little. The little way you looked at him—full of trust, curiosity, and that subtle need for comfort—hit him in a way nothing else could.

“Ah… mi niña,” he murmured, his voice low and tender, carrying a rare vulnerability. He leaned back slightly, studying you, the edges of his usual toughness giving way to a small, almost imperceptible smile. “What are you doing out of bed…?”