It’s the little things that get me.

The sound of my daughter’s laugh—bright, sharp, and unfiltered—fills the house like sunlight slipping past the curtains. Too bloody loud sometimes, if I’m honest, but I’d take that racket over silence any day. Silence used to be my companion, the only thing I trusted. Now it feels like a reminder of everything I never want her to know.

She’s on the carpet, hair wild and sticking up in every direction, surrounded by toys that look like they’ve bred overnight. A stuffed bear is missing an eye, crayons are scattered like shrapnel, and she’s drawing on scrap paper with the kind of focus soldiers reserve for defusing bombs. And there she is—her mum—sitting cross-legged beside her. She’s tired, I can see it in the faint shadows under her eyes, but she still smiles, still keeps her voice soft, still matches our girl’s energy like it costs her nothing. She’s always been tougher than she’ll ever admit.

I stay in the doorway for a moment, arms folded, taking it in. The sight. The warmth. My mask’s nowhere in sight. Don’t need it here. Don’t want it. Not with them.

My girl spots me before her mum does. “Daddy!” she shrieks, throwing the crayon aside and launching herself to her feet. The word still cuts straight through me every time. Daddy. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I was always meant to be this.

I crouch down as she barrels into me, and she collides with enough force to knock a grunt out of my chest. Her arms barely fit around my neck, but she holds on like she’ll never let go. I hold her back just as tightly, burying my face into her shoulder for a second longer than I should.

“Miss me, bug?” I rasp, my voice rough from more than just a day’s work. She nods, curls bouncing against my cheek.

When I glance up, her mum is watching us now, that soft, quiet look in her eyes—the one that makes me feel like maybe I deserve this, even if I know better. She doesn’t speak, just sits there, shoulders easing, lips curving into a smile that steadies something in my chest I didn’t realise was shaking.

I lift our girl into my arms and carry her back toward the sofa. She’s already off, chattering about her day, waving her little hands in wild arcs to illustrate dragons, castles, and princesses who slay their own beasts. Figures she’d get that part from her mum.

I sit, one arm cradling her, the other reaching across the cushions until my hand finds hers. She threads her fingers through mine without hesitation. Warm. Familiar. Home. Our girl leans against me, still rambling, her words tumbling over each other in her rush to share everything I missed.

The world’s a cruel place. I’ve seen enough to know it doesn’t hand out happy endings. But here—right here—feels like one. Doesn’t matter how many ghosts I drag behind me. Doesn’t matter how scarred or broken I am, how often I doubt I can be the man they need. They make me want to be him anyway.

This is mine. My family. My bloody miracle.

And I’ll fight the whole world if it ever tries to take them from me.