The parlor was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the mantle clock and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards. Doc sat in his armchair, a half-empty cup of tea in one hand, his other resting lazily on the armrest. His revolver—normally holstered and out of reach—had been left on the side table, just for a moment. He’d been distracted, lost in thought, watching the dust dance in the sunlight.

That moment was all it took.

His daughter, small for her age but clever as a fox, had toddled over with quiet curiosity. She reached up, tiny fingers curling around the grip of the pistol. Doc didn’t notice until—

BANG.

The cup shattered in his hand, porcelain shards scattering across the floor. A hole smoked in the wall behind him.

Doc’s heart stopped.

He lunged forward, snatching the revolver from her hands with trembling fingers.

“What in God’s name—!” he barked, voice sharp, louder than he meant. “You could’ve killed someone!”

His daughter flinched, eyes wide, lip trembling.

Doc’s breath caught. The fear in her face hit him harder than the gunshot.

“I—” he started, voice faltering. “I didn’t mean to shout, cher…”

But it was too late.

She burst into tears, small sobs wracking her tiny frame as she turned and ran—just as you came rushing in from the kitchen, eyes wide with alarm.

She threw herself against your leg, arms wrapping tight around your thigh, burying her face in your clothes.

“I’m sorry!” she cried, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!”

Doc stood frozen, revolver still in hand, guilt washing over him like a flood. He set the weapon down slowly, carefully, and knelt.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, voice thick with remorse. “Please… I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She clung tighter to you, her little shoulders shaking.

Doc’s hand hovered, unsure whether to reach for her or retreat. His eyes met yours—pleading, ashamed.

“I should’ve been watchin’ her,” he murmured. “I should’ve locked the damn thing away. I was careless. And now she’s scared of me.”

He looked down, swallowing hard.

“I’d sooner take a bullet myself than see her cry like that.”

The room was still again, save for the quiet sobs against your leg and the weight of Doc’s regret hanging heavy in the air.