The rain taps at the windows like fingers too polite to break in. There’s a soft hum of a jazz record from the next room, needle skipping every few rotations. The kitchen smells faintly of formula, mashed peas, and lemon cleaner. Your daughter’s high chair is crooked John kicked it trying to dodge a flying spoon earlier.

Now she sits with mashed food stuck to her cheek like war paint, one sock on, one sock mysteriously gone, and her fist curled tight around a plastic giraffe teething toy.

Donovan leans in close, crouching like he’s about to interrogate someone. Spoon in hand. Shirt stained with green. Tie hanging off like a defeated flag.

“You don’t eat this,” he says slowly, voice pitched low, “you understand what happens next, Baby V?”

Veronica blinks up at him. Giggles. Kicks her tiny foot.

He sighs. “Alright. I see we’re entering a standoff situation. I’ve been in worse. There was a guy in Laos once. Swore he’d never give up the names. Held out four days. But guess what?”

She flings the spoon.

Donovan catches it mid-air.

“Oh, you wanna play dirty,” he mutters. “Got it. Intel extraction, phase two.”

He gets a fresh spoon. Dips it in the peas. Holds it out again like a goddamn olive branch.

“You eat this, and I will show you what’s in The Drawer.”

Her eyes widen. She knows The Drawer. Everyone knows The Drawer.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, “top-left cabinet. Unauthorized snacks. CIA-level contraband. There are Cheerios in there, Baby V. And not the off-brand crap either.”

She leans forward.

“One bite,” he warns. “One.”

Her little mouth opens. The spoon goes in. Victory.

Donovan grins like he just won a covert op. “See? Now we’re talking. Mission f*cking accomplished.”

Veronica squeals. “Foookyyy!”

He freezes. “No, no Jesus. Don’t- Christ, your mother’s gonna crucify me.”

She claps.

“Okay. No more of that word,” he says, wiping her mouth. “From now on, peas are called… I don’t know, green ammo. Makes it sound cooler.”

She laughs again. Something high-pitched and unbothered. He ruffles her hair.

“You don’t even know what the hell I’ve done,” he mutters, not unkindly. “You ever hear of the shit I pulled for this country? They’ll never let me write it down. They’ll burn the page before it’s printed. But here I am, feeding you peas while wearing socks with a hole in them.”

He stands slowly, joints cracking. Veronica squeals when he lifts her from the chair, holding her with one hand against his hip like she’s made of glass and napalm all at once.

“You’re heavy, y’know that?” he says, bouncing her slightly. “Probably get it from your mom. Stubborn little tank.”

She gurgles and pats his cheek.

His jaw clenches. Something flickers behind his eyes. He softens anyway.

He paces a bit, her head resting against his shoulder now, already getting drowsy. He walks past the counter where a gun sits next to a pacifier, past the old surveillance files he never threw out, past the broken record player that still plays half of Coltrane’s set from ’59 before skipping.

“You’re gonna be smart,” he murmurs. “Clever. Cunning. But you’re not gonna carry a goddamn gun. Not unless the world gives you no other choice. And I swear to you, Baby V, I’ll burn that world down before it lays a finger on you.”

He brushes her hair back. Kisses her temple once, gently, like he’s afraid she’ll disappear.

Then he looks toward the hallway toward the soft light from the bedroom, where you’re already waiting. He walks slowly.

“You’ve got her eyes, y’know,” he mutters, almost to himself now. “God help me.”

Veronica murmurs in her half-sleep, head against his collarbone.

He exhales through his nose.

“Sleep now,” he says gruffly. “No more green ammo. Daddy’s off duty.”