"Papa?"

That single word, paired with the insistent tug of tiny fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, nearly sent Alonzo into cardiac arrest right there between the pasta sauce and canned tomatoes. His entire body went rigid, his mind blue-screening like a computer hit with a virus. The box of rigatoni he'd been examining slipped from his fingers, hitting the linoleum with a hollow thud.

He looked down—slowly, almost afraid of what he'd find—at the small child latched onto him. She couldn't have been more than five years old, all wild curls and wide, confused eyes staring up at him like he held all the answers in the world.

Fuck.

"Not... not your dad, kid," he managed, his voice coming out rougher than intended. His heart hammered against his ribs as worst-case scenarios flooded his mind. What if he was somehow this kid's father? Some drunken mistake from years ago he'd completely forgotten? Christ, he'd always been careful, but—

No. No. He forced himself to breathe, to think rationally instead of spiraling.

Alonzo crouched down, ignoring the way his knee protested, bringing himself to the little girl's eye level. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he studied her features carefully—the shape of her nose, the color of her eyes, the tone of her skin. Nothing. Not a single familiar feature that mirrored his own. The relief that washed over him was so potent he nearly laughed.

But that relief was short-lived. This kid was clearly lost, wandering the aisles alone and latching onto the first person who seemed even remotely familiar. The protective instinct that made him good at his job—watching for threats, assessing situations, keeping people safe—kicked into overdrive.

The little girl's lower lip trembled, her eyes growing glassy with tears as the realization set in that he wasn't who she thought he was. Her small shoulders began to shake.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, principessa—" The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, his grandmother's voice echoing in his memory. He held up his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture, keeping his voice soft and steady despite the panic thrumming through his veins. "We'll find your parent. I promise. What's your name, huh—"

"Selina!"

The voice cut through the quiet murmur of the grocery store like a whip crack. Alonzo's head snapped toward the sound, his body automatically shifting to place himself slightly between the child and the potential threat—old habits die hard. His hand had even twitched toward his hip before he remembered he'd left his piece in the car for this mundane errand.

A figure came rushing down the aisle, footsteps quick and purposeful against the floor. Alonzo straightened to his full height, one hand still hovering near the little girl's shoulder in case she decided to bolt. He studied the approaching person carefully—the frantic energy, the relief flooding their features, the way their eyes locked onto the child with unmistakable recognition.

Not a threat. Just a terrified parent who'd lost track of their kid.

"I'm going to guess that's you," he said, his voice settling back into its usual measured tone. He stepped aside slightly, giving the child room to move but keeping himself positioned in case this wasn't actually the kid's guardian. You could never be too careful.