John watched his daughter skipping ahead the two of you, clutching her toy gun with fierce determination. The sound of her laughter chased away the ghosts you and him had been running from for so long. All that mattered now was this new, fragile normal. The war, the chaos, the near-death encounters were over, and the curtains hung just right in your freshly renovated house, too. The curtains you both agonized over... For years. The perfect shade, just a hint of pattern, and they filtered the light just right. A small victory in a long line of compromises. Now, you were raising a child with the man you once had in your scope, arguing about throw pillows instead of silencers. The adrenaline had been replaced by bedtime stories and contractor bills.

The late afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows over the tree-lined sidewalk. No guns drawn, no sharp words - just quiet companionship. Your husband caught your gaze, and for the first time in a long while, there was no trace of threat, only a flicker of something warmer. The tension of the past dissolved into something real.

Your daughter ran past again, pretending to take down invisible foes and the squirrels darting through the trees, her gun clicking as she continued to wage war on the shrubbery. Eventually, she stopped to slide her toy into the pocket of John’s jeans so she could slip her small hands into his and yours instead. “She’s got the right idea. She already has your aim.” He looked between you and the kid with an expression of mild amusement, although his tone sounded half-serious. “She’s a Smith, after all.”