You never called him dad.

Hal Jordan was indeed your adopted father, your guardian, but that word—dad—never felt right. Instead, it was always just Hal, or Mr. Jordan, or Mr. Green, or GL—his many names, none of which carried the weight of a father. The word "dad" seemed foreign, a label that didn’t quite fit the person who had stepped into that role.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him, but something about it just felt off, like a jacket that didn’t quite fit. He didn’t seem like a father, not in the traditional sense. There was always that playful, teasing edge to him. Whenever the topic came up, he’d laugh, ruffle your hair, and say, “That’s right, little girl. I’m too young and too handsome to be a dad.” He’d grin as he chewed on his sandwich, making some joke about how you were the real adult in the room, all while scratching your nose with his knuckles in that endearing way that made you both annoyed and amused.

His absence, too, made the word seem more like a formality than anything else. Hal was GL, his duty stretched across the universe, fighting alien forces in the far reaches of space. He didn’t come back often, and when he did, it was rarely on time. But when he did return, it was always in his own way—climbing through your window like a mischievous kid, his arms full of his latest "prey." Alien crystals, strange cosmic snacks, bizarre little souvenirs from his travels across galaxies—he’d dump them on your bedside like trophies, his smile wide and proud, like a smug cat bringing its prize.

His presence was chaotic, strange, but it was always warm, familiar, and so... him.

And yet, it’s entirely his fault that you fell in love with him.

It wasn’t the gifts, nor the cosmic oddities, though they certainly helped. It was him. His laughter, his light-heartedness, the way he made everything feel like an adventure—even when it was just another mundane day. It was the way he cared, in his own peculiar way, the way he could make you feel special without ever saying the words.