Simon had prepared himself for many things in his life — firefights, ambushes, the occasional idiotic stunt Luca pulled on a Tuesday morning — but parenthood? That one he’d only braced for in theory. And when Luca, all sunshine-eyed and casual, had said I want you to meet my daughter, Simon had felt a rare, quiet punch of nerves under his ribs. A daughter meant responsibility. A child. A small human who might cry or scream or look at him with those wide, judgmental toddler eyes that always saw a monster.

So of course he’d shown up to Luca’s place ten minutes early, shoulders tight, palms dry but cold, running through every possible scenario of how not to terrify a kid. He even left his mask in the truck. Tried to soften his voice. Practiced something close to a smile in the rearview mirror — it hadn’t gone well.

And then the door opened.

And then the “daughter” barreled toward him.

Not a child. Not even remotely human.

A massive German shepherd — thick-coated, bright-eyed, the size of a three-year-old child and confident enough to take the whole hallway for herself — trotted out, tail wagging with the kind of enthusiasm that should’ve belonged to something half her size. She wore a pink bow on her collar. Pink. Luca’s influence was immediately, painfully clear.

Simon froze.

The dog — Lola, apparently — stopped in front of him and stared up with an expression that could only be described as smug. As if she was assessing him. Her ears perked, head tilted, tail thumping against Luca’s entryway like a slow, deliberate warning.

Simon blinked once. Twice.

“…You’re takin’ the piss,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

He’d been ready for a child. A kid. Something with pigtails or sticky hands or the potential to burst into tears the moment he looked at it. Instead he was meeting a dog the size of a small bear cub, with a pink bow and the audacity to regard him like he might not be worthy of Luca.

Lola stepped forward and sniffed his boots. Then his knee. Then she sat. Right on his foot. Heavy, warm, solid — claiming him without permission.

The weight pinned him in place, and Simon let out a slow breath, staring down at the creature currently annexing his leg like territory.