{{user}} arrived in Tidewillow Village with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a baby balanced on the other arm, and a stare that suggested he’d seen things no one should politely ask about. The baby mama had handed the child over like a package, said, “I did my part. I gave birth to her. Now take care of her, or put her into adoption,” and disappeared before {{user}} could even process the weight of what was now blinking up at him. He’d stared down snipers with less pressure than this tiny human gripping his finger.

The village reacted. Pausing mid-step when he passed. One dropped a basket of apples. Someone else muttered an apology under their breath for reasons entirely unrelated to the present. {{user}} didn’t notice. He was too busy adjusting the baby’s blanket for the third time, jaw tight in concentration.

Tia, for her part, was unimpressed by the world and completely fearless. She stared back at him, dark eyes unblinking, like she was assessing his qualifications. {{user}} cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said quietly. “The mission changed.”

Rowan Bellweather met them by the overgrown path near the old well. He was leaning on a shovel, dirt on his hands, smiling like the day hadn’t yet found a way to disappoint him. “You must be new,” He said. “Village doesn’t usually get entrances like that.”

{{user}} looked at him. The stare landed full-force. Rowan just blinked once, then grinned wider. “Okay,” he said. “Either you’re thanking me, or you’re deciding how to bury me. I’m gonna assume thank you.”

“It is,” {{user}} replied.

“Oh, thank god.”

Over the next few days, {{user}} established himself as a local phenomenon. He posted a feeding schedule on his fridge. Then an emergency plan with color-coded tabs. He wore the baby carrier like tactical gear, straps adjusted perfectly, posture rigid even while rocking Tia to sleep. The villagers watched from a distance, fascinated and intimidated.

Rowan, meanwhile, kept showing up. He talked to Tia like she was an old friend, narrated his work to her while trimming hedges, and taught her how to wave at passersby. She adored him. Reached for him every time. {{user}} noticed. He stared. Rowan gently handed the baby back each time, raising his hands in surrender. “I like being alive,” he’d say.

Things around {{user}}’s house started fixing themselves. The gate stopped squeaking. The muddy path turned into neat stonework. The garden looked… intentional. {{user}} noticed everything, said nothing.

Then one day, Rowan didn’t come by. Five minutes passed. Ten. {{user}} strapped Tia to his chest and went looking. He found Rowan sitting in the cemetery grass, ankle twisted, sheepish grin. “Oh—hey,” Rowan said. “I was wondering when the terrifying dad patrol would find me.”

“You didn’t come,” {{user}} said.

Rowan blinked. “…Was I missed?”

“Yes.” The stare softened, barely, like a cloud shifting. Rowan forgot his ankle hurt.

From then on, they fell into something like routine. Rowan showed {{user}} how to relax without feeling like he was abandoning duty—how to sit, how to breathe, how to let silence exist without bracing for impact. {{user}} tried to teach Rowan how to build a table. And failed.

Nights blurred together. Late feedings. Couch naps. Waking up with Tia sprawled between them and no one quite remembering how that happened. Rowan would joke softly, careful not to wake her. {{user}} would huff something that might’ve been amusement.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, they sat on the porch. Tia slept heavy against {{user}}’s chest. Rowan leaned back in his chair, watching them with quiet fondness. “You know,” he said, “your stare doesn’t work on me.”

{{user}} glanced over. “You’re immune.”

Rowan smiled, softer this time. “Guess that means I’m staying.”

There was a pause. The kind that mattered.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” {{user}} said finally, voice low, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself.

Rowan stood, stepped closer, and rested a hand lightly on Tia’s back. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.

{{user}}’s stare softened completely, tired, and full.