Shane notices before he means to.

{{user}} is perched on the RV steps, boots planted wide, the metal creaking softly beneath his weight. Sophia sits between his knees, small and warm and safe, her back resting against his thigh. Carl’s pressed into {{user}}’s side, shoulder tucked under his arm like he belongs there—like he’s done it a hundred times already.

{{user}} produces the lollipops without ceremony. Bright red first. Then blue. He hands them over like it’s nothing, like it’s just another ration being passed out. Sophia’s face lights up at the crackle of the wrapper, her giggle sharp and sudden in the quiet camp. Carl launches straight into an argument about flavors, gesturing with the candy as if he’s presenting hard evidence, insisting blue wins, no contest, while {{user}} listens with exaggerated seriousness.

Then {{user}} unwraps the last one for himself and slips it between his teeth.

Shane slows. Stops.

Huh.

Sugar wasn’t exactly high on the list. Kid stuff. Comfort stuff. Must’ve pocketed a few on a run—one of those things you didn’t plan for but grabbed anyway.

Shane watches {{user}}’s jaw work around the candy, the white stick tipping upward when he smiles at something Carl says. Watches the way his arm stays loose but firm around the boy, the way Sophia leans back without hesitation, trusting the ground won’t give.

And something tight and unfamiliar stirs in Shane’s chest.

Those kids adored him.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t forced. No speeches, no heroics. Just presence. Steady and unremarkable in a way that made it impossible to miss.

{{user}} glances up and catches him staring. For a second there’s a flicker of embarrassment, like he’s been caught doing something he doesn’t want credit for. He lifts the lollipop in a small, crooked salute—don’t say a word.