He’d known you were on patrol alone, and though he refused to show it, worry gnawed at him all the same—instinctive, unavoidable, the curse of being your father. Ashley had brushed it off with practiced reassurance. You’d seen him on patrol countless times. You knew the routes. You knew the risks. You knew what you were doing. He’d nodded, forced himself to believe her. Or tried to.

But when his phone began to buzz in the middle of a meeting—your name flaring to life on the screen—whatever fragile faith he’d built collapsed. The moment he answered and your voice came through, fractured by sobs, he knew he’d been lying to himself all along.

Now he sat awkwardly on the edge of a rooftop, one arm drawn around you, holding you close to his side as if proximity alone could keep the world from hurting you again. Whatever had happened during patrol had pulled you somewhere smaller, softer; the regression was unmistakable. He’d brought one of your favorite sippy cups without comment, and you drank from it quietly, punctuating the silence with the occasional sniffle or hiccup as he stayed still, grounding, letting you lean into him.