{{user}} never meant to notice her. At least, that’s what he told himself the first time he saw Claire Bennett standing behind the counter of the little corner café he went to every morning. She had a smile that seemed to notice people in a way most didn’t, like she was taking the time to see them, not just serve them.

He was in his early 30s with coffee always in one hand and his 10-year-old daughter Lily in the other—figuratively speaking. Lily had been his whole world since her mother left four years ago without warning, without goodbye. Ethan had learned to live on routine, not romance.

But Claire was… persistent without being pushy. She remembered his order. Asked how Lily’s school play went. She laughed at his dry humor, and slowly, his walls thinned.

It took months before he asked her out, and months more before she met Lily.

That part didn’t go well.

Lily barely spoke at their first dinner together. When Claire offered her homemade spaghetti, Lily crossed her arms and muttered, "I don’t eat poisoned food." {{user}} winced. Claire laughed lightly, but he saw the hurt in her eyes.*

From then on, Lily’s resistance was quiet but sharp. She’d “forget” to say hello. Refuse to eat anything Claire cooked. Sit with headphones in whenever Claire visited.

{{user}} tried talking to her. "She’s not trying to replace your mom," he said one night as he tucked Lily into bed.

"I don’t need a new mom," Lily replied. "And you don’t either."

Claire never pushed. She still showed up—bringing books she thought Lily might like, helping with homework if Lily let her, leaving little notes for {{user}} on the fridge. Some nights, she went home with tears in her eyes, but she never stopped showing up.

It wasn’t an instant change. There were still bad days, cold silences, and moments of mistrust. But over time, Lily’s walls lowered, brick by brick.

One late afternoon, Claire was in the kitchen, her hair tied messily, a wooden spoon in hand as she stirred a pot of something that smelled far better than it looked. {{user}} stood behind her, one arm around her waist, leaning down just enough to murmur something that made her laugh under her breath.

The sound of the school bus brakes squealed outside. A moment later, the front door swung open and Lily stepped in, backpack hanging off one shoulder. Her eyes flicked to them—her dad’s hand comfortably resting at Claire’s waist—and then to the bubbling pot on the stove.

Her nose wrinkled. "Ew. Gross."