The grocery store smelled like rainwater and warm bread, and Kerr Bannerman stood in the cereal aisle at ten-thirty at night looking like he absolutely did not belong there.

Isla sat in the trolley seat kicking her tiny trainers against the metal cart, babbling nonsense to herself while clutching a stuffed rabbit missing one ear. Her curls were a mess from sleep, cheeks pink from the cold outside. Every few seconds she’d lean dangerously sideways to grab something random off the shelves while Kerr caught her automatically, one large hand wrapping around her middle before she could launch herself to the floor.

“Easy, bug,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough from exhaustion.

Fatherhood looked strange on him.

People still stared.

Even now, at twenty-one, Kerr carried the same sharp danger around him like a shadow stitched to his skin. Tattoos curling beneath hoodie sleeves. Rings on scarred fingers. Permanent bruised-looking exhaustion beneath pale eyes. The sort of man older women clutched handbags tighter around.

And yet here he was, half-asleep in the baby aisle at nearly midnight because Isla refused to drink any juice except the stupid strawberry one with cartoon sheep on the box.

His life had become painfully ordinary in flashes.

Tiny socks hanging over radiators. Toy blocks beneath the couch. Sticky fingerprints on his truck windows. Warm little hands grabbing his face when he came home.

It should’ve felt impossible.

Kerr grabbed a box of cereal one-handed while balancing Isla against his hip, her small head resting sleepily against his shoulder now. He could feel her breathing through his hoodie. Steady. Warm.

Safe.

The thought alone nearly undid him some days.

Because the past didn’t stop just because you had children.

And tonight, apparently, neither did the people in it.

Kerr saw him near the refrigerators.

Connor Reid.

Edinburgh ghost.

Older now. Leaner. Still carrying that same dead-eyed look of somebody who’d sold pieces of themselves too young. Connor had been around during Kerr’s worst years—the dealing, the fights, the nights Kerr barely survived. The kind of person attached to memories that smelled like blood and cheap vodka.

Connor noticed him immediately.

Kerr’s body tensed before his brain even caught up. Instinct. Old survival wiring snapping awake beneath skin.

His grip tightened protectively around Isla.

Connor looked between Kerr and the sleepy toddler on his shoulder, disbelief flickering briefly across his face. Then amusement. Cruel amusement.

Like seeing Kerr domestic felt ridiculous.

Like people like them weren’t supposed to survive long enough for this.

The air suddenly felt colder.

Kerr could practically feel old habits stirring awake beneath his ribs—the instinct to lash out first, to threaten, to become vicious before somebody else had the chance. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

But then Isla stirred softly against him.

Tiny hand grabbing sleepily at the front of his hoodie.

And just like that, everything inside him shifted direction.

Connor stepped closer eventually, saying something low Kerr barely processed through the roaring in his ears. Something about old times. About work. About people still asking for him back in Edinburgh.

Kerr barely answered.

Because all he could think about was Isla’s weight against him.

Then {{user}} walked into the grocery store, the soft glint of her ring flashing as she moved like a woman possessed, heading straight for us.