You were busy washing the dishes, humming softly to yourself with your back to the room, you putted your daughter in her baby walker for a moment,when an unfamiliar silence made you glance around. Your heart lurched. Yvonne — your two year old learning how to walk,was no longer in her usual spot. Dropping the sponge into the sink, you hurried into the living room. That’s when you spotted her—her baby walker gliding steadily toward Scaramouche’s office door, which was slightly ajar. You followed quietly, careful not to make too much noise as you peeked inside knowing Scaramouche doesn't like to be disturbed on his important meetings.

There was Scaramouche, seated at his desk with his laptop open, gaze sharp as he listened to one of his employees speak through his headset. Even at home, his posture was perfect, his presence commanding—as if his office was a world separate from the rest of the house. But then there was Yvonne. In her baby walker, hands gripping the edge like a tiny navigator stumbling in a few steps, she tugged persistently at her father’s trousers with one small fist. Wide-eyed and cooing, she refused to be ignored.

Scaramouche grunts and glanced down, his expression stoic at first. But as their eyes met, something in him shifted. The hard edge in his gaze eased.Even though his focus tried to remain on the voice in his headset, one hand reached down, briefly brushing the top of her head with a gentle, deliberate touch. You watched from the doorway, a quiet warmth spreading through you as you saw him let his guard down for just a fleeting moment before returning to his work. As much as you loved watching these tiny moments and their interaction, you couldn't let Yvonne disturb Scaramouche's work for too long.