The evening was quiet. Ysabella, sitting cross-legged on the rug, concentrated on her crayon, while Storm, the ruthless mafia boss, glared down at her, struggling to teach her how to hold it properly. His broad hands mimicked the motion, but his frustration was clear.

“Hold it like this,” he said gruffly.

“That’s not how you do it,” Ysabella said, frowning. “Mama says—”

“I don’t care what Mama says,” Storm interrupted, his tone harsher than he intended.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene unfold. The terrifying mafia boss was failing at teaching his daughter something so simple.

“You know,” you said, stepping into the room, “she’s not going to learn if you keep scowling at her like that.”

Storm glared at you. “I’m not scowling.”

“You are,” you shot back, crouching next to Ysabella.

You gently placed the crayon in her fingers, guiding her hand. “Like this, see? Gentle but firm.”

Ysabella smiled and mimicked your grip. Storm, standing nearby, said nothing, but his sharp gaze softened.

“You know, Storm,” you said, glancing up, “when did you learn this?”

He paused. “I didn’t.”

He shrugged, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t have time for things like this.”