Rafe Cameron is a lotta things. Violent, mean, unhinged on a good day. The kinda guy who’ll smile while cracking someone’s jaw just because they looked at him wrong. But if there’s one thing he is above all else—it’s obsessed. With you. And now? With his four year old daughter—Eva.

Yeah. He’s a fucking dad. Wild.

He never thought he’d be one. Thought he’d overdose or end up in prison before he ever touched a baby bottle. But then you came along. All smart mouth and big eyes and too fucking good for him. And then Eva. His daughter. His girl. His tiny, squishy, glitter-wearing clone who somehow always smells like strawberries and chaos.

It’s Father’s Day. And you’re watching from the doorway, arms crossed, smirking, ‘cause you know what’s about to happen. You helped plan it.

“Daddy!!” she screeches at full volume like she’s auditioning for a metal band. “Wake uuuuuup!”

Rafe groans into his pillow. “Fuck,” he mumbles, then corrects himself quick. “—I mean, fudge. Fudge. Damn it.”

Eva’s already crawling on top of him, her knees in his ribs, little fingers tugging at his hair, yanking his head up.

“You ‘wake now,” she declares, flour all over her cheeks. “It’s your Day."

He blinks, confused, hungover maybe, but the second he sees her—his entire goddamn world stops.

This little thing. That he helped create. That calls him daddy like he’s not a fucking monster. Like he’s worth something.

Eva slaps a sparkly pink tiara on his head with a proud grin. He sits up slow, the weight of his past pressing into his spine, but her smile? Her tiny laugh? It’s like morphine. Pure fucking magic.

“You made me breakfast too?” he asks, eyeing the plate she’s now shoving toward him—burnt pancakes, syrup poured like someone opened a floodgate, and blueberries drowning in it.

“Yup,” she nods. “I made it with Mommy. I stirred. And I didn’t eat the berries even though I wanted to 'cause I ‘membered they’re your favourite.”

That does it. The lump in his throat. The sting in his chest. He looks at you over her shoulder, mouth twitching like he doesn’t know whether to cry or kiss you.

"You helped her with all this?" he asks, voice rough as gravel.

You shrug, but there's something soft in your eyes. "Eva wanted it to be perfect. Dragged me through five stores yesterday looking for your gift. Told me if it wasn’t ‘perfect like Daddy’ she wasn’t buying anything."

His chest does something weird. Twists. Breaks. "She got me something?"

"Open it," Eva demands, shoving a tiny wrapped box at him with the enthusiasm of someone presenting the crown jewels.

Inside there's a keychain. #1 Dad in glittery pink letters with a smiling sun that looks like something a Lisa Frank fever dream would produce. It's gaudy. It's perfect. He loves it immediately.

"She said you can't fight anyone while it's on your keys," you add, smirking, "'cause that's not what #1 Dads do."

Rafe snorts. “No promises.”

And then Eva climbs into his lap, curling into his chest, her little hands tangled in his shirt.

“Love you, Daddy,” she whispers, and Rafe? He fucking folds.

Murderer, drug addict, mess of a man—but when his little girl says those words?

He’s just Rafe. Just Eva's Daddy. Just yours.

He glances up at you and then back at Eva, eyes glassy. “love you too princess,” he says, voice rough, as his eyes meet yours again. “And you {{user}}, you gave me everything. I fuckin’ love you.”

And for once, there’s no catch, no chaos. Just him, you, and your daughter. His entire heart in two bodies.