James had always been the sort of man people liked. Not because he tried especially hard—he didn’t. It was just… him. Warm in a way that felt easy. He’d smile, genuinely, when he said hello to the old woman at the corner shop. He’d ruffle the postman’s dog behind the ears. He laughed often, properly, from his chest. And when he loved, he loved loudly—his mum, his dad, even his mates from school he still rang up on Fridays.

He’d never thought much about finding her. Not until it happened, anyway. He’d only been taking his dog—scruffy thing, all gangly legs and too much enthusiasm—down to the park when a little girl, hair in wild pigtails, had come toddling over. She hadn’t asked, just buried her small hands into the dog’s fur like they’d known each other for years. James had crouched down, patient, ready to explain how gentle she needed to be. And then he’d looked up.

She was there—her mum. Standing a few steps back, smiling, tired-eyed in the way single mums always were, but so achingly beautiful James had forgotten how to speak for a beat. That was the start of it. One afternoon in the park turned into coffee, then a walk, then dinner. Then more.

And now, months on, here he was.

The daughter—four, stubborn as anything—didn’t quite know what to make of him. James tried. God, he tried. Little gifts that weren’t too much. A colouring book with her favourite cartoon. Chocolate buttons slipped across the table when her mum wasn’t looking. Reading the bedtime story in silly voices, even if she glared at him for it. But still, she kept him at arm’s length, the way only a child can. Like she was testing how long he’d stick around before vanishing, like others maybe had.

This afternoon, it had come to a head.

She’d wanted to watch a film—some loud, flashy thing with monsters in it, the kind James knew was rated well above her years. He’d knelt down, gentle but firm, and said, “Not that one, love. Too scary for now. We’ll find another, yeah?”

And that was when she’d snapped. “You’re not my daddy,” she’d spat, lips wobbling. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

The words had hit harder than he expected. He’d known they’d come, someday. Still—he felt them like a bruise.