You weren’t supposed to mean anything.

From the start, you were just the photographer. The one with the attitude. The one who didn’t flinch when Liam dragged blood across the floor and Louis made a joke about dumping a body in the Thames. You held your camera like a shield and your mouth like a weapon, and I hated how quick you were to bite back. You were mouthy. Arrogant. Didn’t know your place. Thought you were better than us.

I hated you for it.

And then I hated the way I started thinking about your voice when you weren’t around. The way I started looking for you after every job. Started needing you after every kill.

Now, two months later, you’re in my bed more nights than not. No label. No promises. Just heat and hate and silence that feels almost like something real.

I still fuck other girls. You know that. You let me. You pretend you don’t care, but I’ve seen the way your jaw clenches when I come home smelling like someone else. I see the flicker of something dangerous in your eyes when I ignore your messages. And still, you crawl back into my bed. Always.

Then you met Alice—my five year old daughter.

You weren’t supposed to.

I told you about Alice’s mum, Clara. About the night she didn’t come home. About how I found her. I found the first and only girl I’ve ever loved—the mother of my child, dead. She ended her own life. Told you how I held Alice in one arm and buried her mother with the other. How I swore I’d never let anyone close enough to ruin us again.

Alice wasn’t even meant to be there. My mum had to cancel looking after her last minute. I didn’t think twice. I just brought her back to mine and figured you wouldn’t be over that night. But of course, you showed up—always do when I pretend I don’t want you to.

You walked through my door, boots heavy on the floor, and she was there. Sitting on the carpet with her legs crossed, drawing something in crayon. She looked up. Blinked once. Then twice.

Then she frowned.

Didn’t say hi. Didn’t smile. Just stood and clutched that ragged bear to her chest like you were something to be scared of.

“Dada, who’s that?” she asked.

And I watched you freeze.

I cleared my throat. “She’s… a friend. From work.”

She narrowed her eyes, her little jaw already set just like mine when I get pissed. She didn’t like you. I could see it all over her face. Suspicious. Cold. Her whole body stiff, like she could feel something was off. She’s sharp like that. Too much like me.

You knelt and tried to smile. “Hi, Alice. I’m—”

She cut you off, frowning. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Then walked straight past you into the kitchen like you were nothing.