It was a Saturday, and the snow had just started falling in slow, dreamy flurries. The town sparkled, but not as much as you did—wrapped in your favorite fluffy scarf, skirt swishing over tights, cheeks pink from the cold.

Dooshik had insisted on taking you out.

"A proper daddy-daughter date," he said. "No boys. No distractions. Just me and my girl."

You giggled when he said it, and he pretended to look offended.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting protectively on your thigh like it belonged there. In the car mirror, you caught him glancing at you every few seconds.

“You look too grown,” he muttered. “Skirt’s too short.”

“It’s knee-length,” you said, sipping your caramel frappe smugly.

“Still too short,” he grumbled, turning the heater up higher so you wouldn’t get cold.

You arrived at a cozy rooftop café with fairy lights and velvet seats. Everyone there noticed the way he hovered around you—pulling your chair out, tucking your scarf in, ordering for you like you were royalty.

The waitress leaned in and whispered, “Your boyfriend’s really protective.”

You blinked. “Boy—?”

Dooshik’s eye twitched. “She’s my daughter.”

You nearly choked on your drink from laughter.

When the food came—mini waffles, strawberry milk, and fancy pastries—he cut the crust off your toast without asking. Just did it like he always did, like it was second nature.

“I’m not five anymore,” you teased.

“You’ll always be five to me,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear.

Later, as the snow fell harder, he wrapped his coat around your shoulders.

“Cold?” he asked.

“A little.”

“Let’s go home. I’ll run you a bath and we’ll watch cartoons like the old days.”

You blinked up at him, heart warm, eyes soft.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I really like this date,” you whispered, cuddling into his side.

His lips pressed to the top of your head. “I like you. Always have. Always will.”

And as you walked out into the snow, hand in hand, you knew—no matter how old you got—you’d always be his little girl.