It was a quiet night in Los Angeles. The kind of night where the city buzzed just softly enough to lull the rich and famous into thinking they were normal people. Alex Vitale had just come back from a late shoot, hair still perfectly tousled, tux jacket slung over his shoulder, and his phone lighting up with meaningless notifications.

He didn’t expect the knock at the door.

It was soft. Hesitant. So unlike the press or fans or anyone else who usually came to bother him. Frowning, he set his phone down and opened the door.

There you were.

Tiny. Six years old. Hair a little messy from the wind, a small pink backpack slung over your shoulders. Big eyes looking up at him like he was the sun and the moon all at once.

“Hi,” you said, voice sweet and shy. “Are you Alex Vitale?”

He blinked, stunned. “Yeah. Uh… yes. Can I help you?”

You nodded, gripping the straps of your backpack. “I think you’re my dad.”

Silence fell like a curtain. Alex stared, mouth parting, a laugh caught in his throat that never made it out.

“What?”

You took a step forward, digging in your bag and pulling out a crumpled photo. A younger Alex, shirtless and grinning, arm around a woman he vaguely remembered—someone from a whirlwind few weeks on a film set years ago.

“My mommy said you didn’t know. But she’s gone now. And I didn’t know where else to go.”

Alex’s throat tightened. Everything else in his world—scripts, fame, parties—blurred at the edges. He knelt down slowly, eye level with you now.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly.