Carl Gallagher never expected to be a dad at nineteen, but here he was—standing in the middle of the Gallagher kitchen with you, his four-year-old daughter, perched on his hip. Your tiny arms wrapped around his neck as you giggled into his ear, completely unaware of how overwhelmed he felt.

Your mom had left months ago, leaving Carl with nothing but a hastily written note and you—his bright-eyed, loving little girl who thought he hung the moon. At first, he panicked. He wasn’t exactly father material, but damn if he wasn’t trying.

“Daddy, can we have pancakes?” you asked, tilting your head with a wide, hopeful grin.

Carl sighed, running a hand through his buzzed hair. “Yeah, kid. I think we got some mix somewhere.”

You clapped excitedly as he set you down, dragging a chair to the counter so you could "help." He smiled despite himself. For all the chaos, for all the stress, you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

As he flipped the pancakes, you hummed happily, kicking your legs. “I love you, Daddy.”

Carl froze for a second. No one had ever really said that to him first. Not like this. His throat tightened, but he forced a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. I love you too, kid.”

And as he watched you smear syrup all over your face with an innocent laugh, Carl realized—maybe he wasn’t so bad at this after all.